


equitas

by siluria



Category: Lost
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-12
Updated: 2011-11-12
Packaged: 2017-10-26 00:23:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siluria/pseuds/siluria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Jack has to do before he can hand his resignation in and escape LA is find the serial killer that killed his previous partner. He doesn't count on breaking in a new one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	equitas

**Author's Note:**

> AU in which Jack and Sawyer are cops working for the LAPD Robbery-Homicide Division.
> 
> This was imagined a long time before the final season came along, which of course made me flail a little.

*******

The car finally slowed to a halt outside one of the indistinct warehouses. Old newspapers danced in the stifling breeze that blew across the Nevada desert. The midday sun blinded, glistening in thousands of glass shards from broken window panes that were now scattered over the rutted asphalt. Hard lines of buildings wavered as in some drug-induced vision as the rising heat created shimmering mirages.

The driver climbed out of the black sedan. Sawyer took this as his cue to do likewise. With one longing look at the air conditioning, he slid dark sunglasses on his face to combat a glare not even the blackened windows of the car could diffuse. Even with the expectation of it, he had to squint against the light as he climbed out, blinking rapidly to fight watering eyes. His driver hadn’t said a word since he’d picked Sawyer up from his motel, and remained mute as he pointed to the doorway in the nearest building.

“So Slim, you gonna hold my hand or do I get to do this bit on my own?” he asked. He was fishing for information, any hint of what to expect, but ‘Slim’ kept quiet, simply waved a slender hand at the doorway, more insistently this time.

“What, no goodbye?” Sawyer’s words were accompanied by a ready smile that wasn’t returned.

“Well, I’d love to say it’s been a pleasure, but then that’d be a lie,” he added.

‘Slim’ glared and an odd twitch started in his left eye that gave Sawyer the notion that maybe he was pushing his luck.

“Yeah, door, now. I get it,” he mumbled.

He took a deep breath to dispel the apprehension that had sat in his gut since the call he’d received the night before. It never paid to be too eager, or too tense.

The interior of the warehouse was as gloomy and uninviting as he’d expected, and his pupils, barely adjusted to the brightness outside, expanded painfully to take in the relative darkness. Sawyer lifted the shades onto his head, using them to push back the blond locks that always seemed to fall in front of his eyes. The heat of the day was even more oppressive in here where the warm winds failed to stir the air. Sawyer suspected the only thing wind would disturb would be years of accumulated dust and the vermin that now made the warehouse their home. He shivered at the thought, suppressing a cough as musty smells invaded his senses.

As his eyes adjusted, he spotted the men he was there to meet in one of the dilapidated offices. He cast his eyes around the rest of the building - _she_ hadn’t arrived yet, and he wondered why that should be a surprise. Women were always late, unless he’d managed to reel them in hook, line and sinker with his southern bad boy charms. Then those women could be found sitting on a bar stool nursing their drinks and eyeing the clocks as they waited for him. His face twitched into a satisfied smirk at the memories.

He laid on the charm as he reacquainted himself with those faces he knew; the usual dull response to his energy failed to stall his speech. He catalogued the newcomers, appraising their clothes and mannerisms, trying to get a sense of who and what they were. All the signs suggested the younger man was the bodyguard. The cheaper quality suit and the telltale bulge under his left arm giving him away.

He’d barely kicked off his sales pitch when she came breezing through the door, a waft of rose-based perfume preceding her. Despite the searing heat outside she looked perfect. The ochre linen trouser suit was fitted, and yet had no creases. Her auburn hair was pristine, flowing loosely around her shoulders, bouncing with each exaggerated step her high-heels forced her to take.

He stopped talking; her presence always demanded attention even when she remained silent. His face transformed into a dimpled smile that he knew weakened the ladies. It had never worked with her, which in turn made him all the more determined to break her. She ignored him again, her manner crisp and business-like. There were no introductions, and she was quick to discuss money, terms and expectations. He listened to her soft mid-western accent with a growing unease and an unwelcome feeling that maybe for once he’d miscalculated.

One of her entourage was pulling out a gun, and his surprise was genuine as he listened to her accusations, desperately trying to think of a way out. He opened his mouth to protest, but no words came as the gun barked.

*******

Sawyer came awake in an instant, a tangle of sheets around his waist prolonging the trapped feeling the nightmare always gave him. Breathing raggedly, he tugged at the white cotton, finally kicking it away sharply without a care for the ripping sound that accompanied the movement. Perched on the edge of the bed, shaking hands shoved the blond hair back from his face as he tried to calm down. He should have been glad that the dream had ended at that point; there had been nights that had replayed each knife cut, each fist, and each boot that had kept him in hospital all those weeks.

He pushed himself from the bed and shuffled slowly over the faded hardwood floor to the window, one hand absentmindedly rubbing the ragged scar on his left shoulder that the first bullet had created. The thin white sheet at the window barely stopped any light, but he hadn’t been in LA long enough to consider buying drapes. Part of him still wondered if he would stay long enough to justify the expense for something he may have to leave behind.

He shoved the sheet to one side, tucking the gathered fabric behind the screw that still stuck out of the wall where the faded paint highlighted a missing shelf. The early morning light crept further into the room, casting long shadows behind packing boxes he had little inclination, or intention, of unpacking. Dust eddies swirled in the slight draft from the air conditioning unit that seemed to work only when it saw fit. If the summers were as oppressively humid as the rumors suggested he’d have to consider getting it fixed, but summer was a few months off yet, and that was too far ahead to be planning.

The apartment was tiny. The single bedroom fit a queen-size bed and little else. There was another room he’d filled with a couch and a TV set perched on an upturned crate that had been left by the previous tenant. The couch was the one concession he’d made to an otherwise barren apartment that was filled only with things he could leave behind should he need to run again. He’d spent good money on deep chocolate leather, long enough to accommodate his 6’2” frame. The movers had cursed his name to the deepest bowels of Hell carrying it up five floors. He’d ignored them. He spent most nights on that couch rather than the bed in a futile bid to keep the nightmares at bay.

Sawyer sighed as the memories faded, his body relaxing enough for him to lean tiredly against the cool wall. His gaze drifted out over an unfamiliar city, over neighborhoods the tourists would likely never see. He could have found somewhere better, but this had been the only place available within his budget where he had even a glimpse of the ocean. Those years in the Nevada desert and the weeks of painful recovery surrounded by four walls had created a need to wake up to the smell of the ocean and the ability to imagine a life without barriers where his past didn’t matter. For the time being, this was as close as he could get.

He glanced at the bright red numbers shining from the clock perched on top of one of the packing boxes. He had enough time to get down to the beach before starting his first day on the job. The offer of a role with the LAPD had come to him while he was still recovering. It meant a move away from undercover and back to leg work, something he once swore he would never again do, but he’d needed to leave Vegas, and fast. It was too dangerous to stay. With no explanation as to how his cover had been blown, all Sawyer could do was turn his tail and run. This job was there to run to, and gave him something to focus his skills on until the time came that his last case caught up with him again. Only Sawyer wasn’t sure he was cut out for a life of solving mysteries, and he certainly wasn’t ready to trust his life and sanity to a partner.

Pulling a clean pair of jeans from the duffle by the door, he couldn’t help but wonder if this had really been his best option.

*******

Christian Shephard pulled at the mahogany blinds that gave him his privacy, casting an experienced eye over the detectives that formed his department. It had been a sideways move to Robbery-Homicide, but one that gave him more exposure and credibility, even if the value in the end column of his paycheck each month had not altered. His eyes flicked from one desk to another, from one department to the next as he scanned the entire floor, making sure the building blocks of his empire were as they should be. He’d made changes since he arrived, removing the old, replacing with the new. What he had inherited from his predecessor had been scrapped and re-molded, shaped into something he could influence and control.

City money had been spent on his new office, he’d re-sited and modernized the previous Captain’s dour workspace, making the new one larger, less cluttered, and every inch the top executive’s office he felt his position deserved. Corporate imagery adorned the walls with the stiff smiling faces of his predecessors, the gilded plaque of the LAPD always gleaming, always reminding him that it was his job to protect and to serve.

He watched as a figure passed by the glass. Jack walked as if on autopilot, taking sips from a still steaming mug of coffee, his eyes never straying from the contents of the file he held in the other hand. Christian watched long enough to follow his path as Jack rounded desks and obstacles, so familiar with his route that he didn’t need to see. His eyes stayed fixed on his report as the mug managed to be placed on the only space on an otherwise cluttered desk. Christian despised the mess. It didn’t represent his vision for the image of the department, yet each time he tried to catch Jack out he would immediately lay his hands on whatever file or report Christian requested. Jack might be his son, but he was definitely not a chip off the old block.

Christian sighed and let the blinds fall closed, shutting out the working side of his department and walked over to his desk, sliding his slim frame into the high-backed leather chair behind it. The strong mahogany desk dominating the room was the antithesis of Jack’s. The LAPD screensaver flickered on his computer screen, rotating through one corporate hymn sheet to another, projecting messages that were supposed to encourage and promote teamwork. The leather writing mat was similarly embossed with the force insignia, an heirloom of those that had held his position before him. There were no personal touches on Christian Shephard’s desk, no family photos, no novelty mugs or desk tidies, only the bare minimum. The only item marring the surface was the single manila folder. Christian straightened the leather mat before pulling the folder to him, opening the cover to reveal the personnel file of his new Homicide detective.

Christian craved for and grasped every opportunity to climb the social and corporate ladders while Jack seemed happy to be a paper pusher. As each day passed, Jack dove deeper into the backgrounds and histories of cases, cold cases most often, shying away from the high profile offences that would make his name… make the Shephard name. Christian had stood by for long enough, the man he’d kept waiting on the other side of his office door would either make or break his son. And Christian would let it happen either way.

Christian scanned the pages of a file he’d already read and memorized. Jack’s new partner was a maverick, a man who took risks and frequently acted outside police boundaries. A rough ride through uniform, a brief tenure in Vice before being pulled into deep undercover, he worked on his gut instincts. He had enough black marks and disciplinary hearings to tell Christian he was a fighter. He was everything Jack wasn’t, everything Christian wanted his son to be – he was going to get Jack killed or stir him up. Christian expected fireworks, but he’d be damned if he was going to let his son take the easy way out.

He closed the file again and placed it in the centre of the mat, confidant that he could control the maverick, then reached over and lifted the phone receiver to tell his secretary to show Ford through. As he replaced the receiver, he glanced at the brass clock that hung on the wall. Twenty minutes late. It was a good balance, late enough to indicate that the Captain was a busy man, but not too late that it made him appear unorganized.

Sally’s customary two knocks sounded before the door opened. Christian pulled the gold fountain pen from the pocket inside his suit jacket and laid it down next to the file before rising to get his first look of his new detective. Ford’s eyes scanned the room briefly before he sauntered toward Christian’s desk. Ford shook the offered hand before following Christian’s silent instruction to sit in the chair at the other side of the desk.

Christian noticed there was no real apprehension in Ford’s posture, no sign of stiffness that would indicate a degree of awe, or nervousness. Christian smiled internally.

“Firstly, may I welcome you to the department, James.”

“Sawyer.” The word drawled out in Ford’s warm Alabama accent.

“Sawyer,” Christian echoed. “That was your undercover persona was it not?” he asked, opening the file once more, turning the sheets until he reached the reports on Ford’s last undercover assignment.

“I prefer the name.”

“Why?”

Sawyer shrugged and shifted in his seat slightly, Christian fixed him with an intent stare that made the younger man lick his lips, smoothing one hand down a denim-clad thigh.

“You live the life, you become the character,” he admitted matter-of-factly.

Christian uncapped the fountain pen and underlined a passage in the file. Ford had lived the life of Sawyer for two years, never setting a foot inside his Division’s offices, contacting one or two colleagues at infrequent intervals throughout the entire period. Ford lived the life of the criminals he was trying to catch, and rumors spread that he committed those same crimes he was trying to convict people on. Deep undercover operatives had a history of turning, of winding up in pieces after weeks of no contact, or disappearing never to be seen again. Ford had his cover blown, and the paper Christian had just marked stated he was lucky to come out of it alive.

He laid the pen back down and leant forward on his elbows. “You can walk out of this office and introduce yourself as Greta Garbo, be whoever you want out there, as long as you do your job. In here and on your badge it will be James Ford.”

Ford’s eyes narrowed as he stared back at Christian; it was his first test on whether he could be tamed, and the Captain had no intention of failing. Eventually Sawyer shrugged and slouched back in the chair, breaking eye contact. Christian nodded.

“I know you haven’t worked Homicide before, and I appreciate you haven’t done footwork in a while, but I’m a man down in this department and I figured you’d be willing to learn. That’s why I’m partnering you with Jack Shephard.”

Christian watched as Ford’s gaze dropped to the polished brass nameplate on his desk before rising again. “So what’s Shephard done to deserve someone like me?”

Christian held Ford’s gaze silently until the younger man shrugged and grinned sheepishly. “Jack’s partner was killed recently,” Christian stated.

Ford visibly winced, “Not sure I wanna ride shotgun with someone who’s lost one partner already.”

Christian nodded once. “If you see it that way then I could make arrangements for you to be partnered with John Locke.”

“What’s his story?” Ford asked.

Christian closed the file again on his desk before answering, the leather of the chair squeaking in the protracted silence as he settled back into it. “John is a loner, prefers working that way. He’s got good insight, and can usually produce statements out of even the most mute of suspects,” Christian paused before continuing. “Locke was also the one on duty with Jack’s partner whilst he was out of the country.”

“What happened?”

Whether it was idle curiosity, or a calculated question Christian couldn’t be sure. “I would suggest you approach John or Jack for your answer to that one. Although the reply may differ depending on who you choose to ask.”

“Guess I’ll just stick with the original assignment,” Ford drawled. “He know what he’s gettin’?”

“I’ll be talking to him next,” Christian replied before reaching over to open the top drawer of his desk. Pulling out a black wallet, he placed it on the desk in front of Ford. “That’s your shield. You’ll need to report over at the range to collect and sign out your weapon of choice; Sally will give you directions. She’ll also issue you with a cell phone. I want it kept on 24/7. Once you’re through, you can head home until tomorrow morning at eight. I’ll introduce you to Jack and allow him to show you the who’s and the where’s, and what he’s currently working on.”

Ford nodded once, leaning forward to pick up the wallet. He opened it briefly before shoving it into the inside pocket of his leather jacket. He stood quickly after Christian rose from his chair, shaking the hand held out to him, before heading for the office door.

Christian waited until the door closed behind him before sitting back down. The faint whir of the air-conditioning and the diluted rings from the phones in the office beyond were the only sounds to break the silence. He expected the meeting with his son would change that.

*******

Jack never sat in the small waiting area outside his father’s office, despite the fact that Christian always kept him waiting. In the early days Jack would stand behind one of the two maroon leather chairs, fingers gripping their backs and drumming out tuneless rhythms until he would finally be called through. After that one time he’d caught Sally’s frustrated glare, Jack had stopped drumming and started to flick through the small library of police manuals and almanacs that were pristinely placed on the bookshelf. They were arranged alphabetically and numerically, all within sections according to their height and color. The arrangement on the mahogany shelving was so precise that Jack was certain the only hand that turned any of the pages was his own. He’d pull down one of the books and lean up against the glass next to the doorway out to the main floor, always managing to find his place by the folded corner. He was in no doubt that his father would call him on the wanton destruction if the man ever bothered to open one of the manuals to notice. At least Jack would be able to demonstrate that the corners were all neatly folded so as to not be out of place with the rest of his collection. Hell, even the spacing was regimental, the number of pages read always seeming to be the same each time.

Jack was five pages into the current journal when he was called through. He frowned as he turned over the corner of the page. He normally got through at least ten pages before being interrupted. He made sure he left the bookshelf as he’d found it before showing himself into Christian’s office, noting the two folders that marred the usual minimalism of his father’s desk.

A career on the Force was not something Jack had wanted to consider, certainly not in uniform. Christian had other ideas and Jack had finally figured out how manipulative his father could be when his applications for medical school had become forensic pathology and his graduation party turned into a one-way taxi ride to the academy at Elysian Park. He’d managed to get out of uniform and into the Detective division as soon as his two year minimum beat service was up. Jack was sure it was in many ways down to his father’s influence, and although the first few years hadn’t been easy, he could at least say he worked his own way towards gaining some credibility and respect. When Christian pulled him away from Division and with him to his new Captain’s job at Robbery-Homicide, Jack had to start all over again, this time living under his father’s exacting standards while at the same time trying to smooth the edges and knock down the walls being the new boss’ ‘privileged’ son had immediately erected.

It soon became clear to his co-workers that being Christian’s son was a disadvantage rather than a perk. After that, his relationships with them became less strained, however Jack found everything he did was under close scrutiny and never quite good enough. That was when he first printed out the application forms for the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico. He’d filled them in and then shredded them on numerous occasions as his personal and professional life ebbed and flowed; first Sarah, then Boone. Now they were completed again, sealed and ready to mail – all he had to do was catch Boone’s killer first. Then he was done.

At Christian’s silence, Jack helped himself to the seat in front of the desk, unbuttoning his suit jacket as he sat. He rested a hand on his bent knee, holding back the urge to drum his fingers. He watched silently as his father made some final notes in the column space of one of the files, the nib of the gold fountain pen flowing smoothly across the paper. Biting back the urge to sigh, Jack forced himself to calm down. The meetings between Christian and himself had become strained since his separation from Sarah and his return from Phuket. Where once civility had at least been commonplace, it was now rare that Jack left this office without some argument having raged; Jack normally the one to raise his voice against his father’s calm condescension. He was sick of the arguing, and sick of the interruptions that kept him from his job.

Jack was just beginning to lose the fight with his fingers’ urge to tap when Christian laid the pen down and turned his attention to him.

“There will be a new detective moving into the division and into Homicide. He starts tomorrow, his name is James Ford, and he’s your new partner.”

Brief and straight to the point. It was said in a tone that Christian used to demonstrate to Jack that there was no point in arguing, that he was the Captain and his word was law. Jack could sit and argue, but it would serve no purpose other than to waste time, when it came down to it, in this office his father was his commanding officer.

Jack rubbed a hand briefly across his forehead and nodded once. He watched as Christian sat back in his chair, an almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth the only indication Jack got that his father was disappointed at the lack of resistance.

“Ford is a transfer from Las Vegas, and although he has no homicide experience he has several years in Vice and deep undercover,” Christian added. He moved to lean forward, steepling his fingers as he rested his elbows on his desk. “He’s got good instincts and good street smarts, which means he should balance your skills out.”

Jack’s mouth twisted into a wry smile and he dipped his head as he listened to his father’s words. Christian was a master of hidden meanings. There was so much he said with his body language and his tone, but only the practiced eye could reveal the true meaning behind his words. To most people serving under Christian Shephard, he was polite, efficient, and able to command through respect rather than a raised voice. Those that knew him well knew otherwise - Jack had 34 years and a crapload of experience to draw on. So when Christian said that his new partner had instincts to balance his ‘skills’, what he meant was that Jack lacked instincts. Lacked those skills that turned good detectives into great ones. The type of detective a Captain wanted on his team, and the type he wanted as a son to broadcast his family name.

But Jack wasn’t like Christian, and certainly didn’t want to end up with that bottle of scotch locked in the bottom drawer of his desk, all the while getting other people to do his job. Jack had every intention of taking responsibility for his own successes and failures.

“Fine,” was all Jack said in reply.

Christian nodded sharply. “He’s due in tomorrow at eight, I trust you’ll bring him up to speed on your current cases.”

Jack nodded his reply and stood, making his way back to his desk. For now Jack would play along with his father’s intentions, no matter how much he disliked the idea of another partner. It didn’t matter anyway, once this case was solved he was gone, and Christian could shape Ford into his perfect detective.

*******

Shephard opened the door from his office and showed Sawyer out into the open plan space that covered the rest of the third floor. Green eyes scanned the room in an instant, taking in the layout, the gossip corners, the people that likely spent more time talking about the ball game than they did about their caseload. By the time Shephard had steered him to the nearest desk, Sawyer had a rough idea of who to work in order to get the lowdown on the office and its inhabitants.

Sawyer’s gaze flicked from the far reaches of the office to the man who was straightening from behind the desk they’d paused in front of. A year or two older than himself, Sawyer took stock of the clearly expensive suit and the crisp white shirt, the cuffs of which shone bright against the deep blue of the jacket as the man held out his hand.

“James, this is Jack Shephard. Jack, James Ford,” Christian announced.

Sawyer pasted on a bright smile, trying to force the expression to reach his eyes as he reached out for the offered hand. “Sawyer’s fine.”

He watched deep brown eyes flicker, a frown caught before it could fully form. Jack nodded. “Sawyer,” he acknowledged, his grip tightening briefly before Sawyer let go and stepped back.

At first glance, a person would say Jack Shephard was his father’s son. Both held themselves with a stiff, almost regimental posture; both adorned themselves with suits that spoke of money, albeit subtly. And that’s where Sawyer’s comparison ended. Where the father walked with a confidence and arrogance that belittled those around him without them even noticing, the son appeared far more honest, perhaps too honest for this job. Whereas Christian was tall and slender, Jack’s frame carried a good degree of solid muscle, broad shoulders that tapered to a slim waist spoke of someone who took care of himself. But it was Jack’s eyes that told Sawyer what he needed to know. Sawyer sighed internally, wondering just how long he’d be able to stand it before he was hauling that leather sofa back down those five flights of stairs.

“Well gentlemen,” Christian said, interrupting Sawyer’s thoughts. “I shall leave you to settle in. Jack I trust you’ll show James the ropes.”

Sawyer huffed at Christian’s continued use of his first name, just managing to catch Jack’s gaze as it flicked to him before his attention turned back to his father. “Yes, Sir.”

Sawyer smirked as Christian strode back to his office, leaving the two men in uncomfortable silence. “He always so stubborn?”

Sawyer felt Jack’s gaze on him, assessing. Sawyer turned his eyes to meet Jack’s, the smirk widened, an eyebrow raised, making sure the challenge was clear. Jack’s brown eyes held his, and Sawyer could read the full gamut of expressions that flicked through them, yet Jack refused to back down. In the end, Jack must have found what he was looking for, or else simply gave in; either way he was the first to look away, his head shaking slightly as he straightened a file on his desk.

He laughed once. A clipped sound that held no humor. “You have no idea,” he finally admitted. Sawyer continued to study him as he straightened up. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to the team and show you where the coffee is.”

“Ah, priorities,” Sawyer said with a smile, as he followed Jack’s lead.

**

Sawyer sighed and straightened, one hand trying to rub away the stiffness from his neck as he laid the file aside. His mind was trying to process the information contained in the folder, trying to get back into that mindset that he’d had as a detective for viewing the bigger picture and the relevant points of the case, rather than working off the cuff. He’d read each of the typed reports, squinted at penciled comments in the margins that Sawyer presumed were Jack’s notes, and skimmed over autopsy details that seemed to have more of Jack’s scrawl on them than there was typeface. He was going to have to remember to bring his glasses in if reading files was all the activity there was in this place. Jack had said there were other cases running the background, cold cases that others had conveniently forgotten about, but he’d left those for another day, handing Sawyer a series of thick folders holding every possible piece of information he’d need on this one case.

Five murders over the last eighteen months, all single men, no pattern in their ages, appearance, social backgrounds, or neighborhoods. The only common denominator was a single knife wound, no weapon at the scene, and that there were no signs of forced entry or attempted burglary.

He grimaced as he dug fingers deeper into a particularly tense spot on his shoulder, jumping slightly as a steaming cup of coffee was placed on the edge of his desk. He muttered a thank you as he reached out for the mug and tracked Jack back to the desk opposite his own.

“How’d you know I like it black?” Sawyer asked, taking a cautious sip of the still scalding liquid.

Jack smiled as he looked up at Sawyer briefly before moving some files to find the mat to place his own cup on. “Lucky guess,” he replied.

Sawyer frowned, sniffing as he continued to stare at Jack’s bent head as he scrawled more notes on the pristine white pages of another report.

Jack sensed the scrutiny and looked up again. “There’s no milk, so like I said, lucky guess.”

Sawyer snorted and shook his head. “Right. So, you got anything else on this case?” he asked, waving a file before dropping it back on his desk. “Any suspects? Profiles?”

Jack’s hand paused mid-sentence for a long breath before he slowly placed the pen back down. He reached for a file, moving it from under a small uneven stack. Sawyer watched as he seemed to war with himself as to what to do before he sighed loudly and looked up to meet Sawyer’s expectant gaze.

“I have some theories,” Jack said softly. He tapped the file on his desk before finally holding it out to Sawyer.

Sawyer took the file, but refrained from opening it, keeping his gaze on the man across from him. Jack ducked his head and ran a hand over the back of his neck.

“Let’s just say that there are no suspects at the moment, and some people aren’t really on board with some of the ideas I have.”

Sawyer gave Jack his due when he refused to turn his gaze towards anyone in particular, so he dropped the file on his desk and opened it to the first page. “I’ll let you know what I think then,” Sawyer said.

Jack nodded and returned to the notes he was making, Sawyer watched him out of the corner of his eye for a moment before turning his attention to the file, hoping he wasn’t partnered with a complete waste of space.

*******

Jack stripped out of his running gear as he made his way across the hallway to his bathroom, dumping the sweaty clothing in the laundry hamper before he stepped into the shower. Cranking the temperature up, he leaned into the spray, closing his eyes as the force of the water washed away the sweat and grime, finally relaxing as the heat soothed strained muscles.

He’d pushed himself on his run tonight, forcing tired legs to go that bit faster, that bit further, as he tried to sort out the thoughts in his head. Ford… _Sawyer_ had been what he’d expected, on the surface at least. Jack wasn’t so naïve to believe that the smooth charm went below the skin, but as he’d yet to dig that deep it was all he had to work with right now. The surface was more People magazine than the smart business image the LAPD tried to promote, and yet Jack couldn’t see even Christian managing to force Sawyer out of the jeans and into a suit. The problem was more in his attitude than anything, the sarcasm that was never far away. Jack wasn’t all that sure whether it was a superiority complex or a screen he used to hide behind. He sensed the latter. After all, how else could someone survive so long undercover?

Sawyer had been in the office for only a day, and had already drawled his way into exchanges with people Jack had never managed to interact with. He knew that his people skills were limited, and accepted that Sawyer’s undercover skills and his survival instincts meant that he could charm any snake he came across, but it still bugged him. Hell, it bugged him that the clerks were already stopping by to see if there was anything the new guy needed.

Despite that, Jack was pleased that Sawyer hadn’t bothered to interact much with Locke, although he wasn’t sure which side the wariness was on. Jack didn’t know Sawyer well enough to know if he was avoiding Locke because of hearsay, or because he could read something in the other detective. Locke certainly seemed to harbor an instant mistrust, and he didn’t get off to the best of starts by referring to Sawyer as James, despite Jack’s introduction of him as the former.

With Jack, Sawyer had toned down the charm, seemingly taking an interest in the case and Jack’s views on patterns, motives and possible profiles. He hadn’t dismissed Jack’s ideas outright, although he hadn’t actually agreed with them either, admitting that Jack’s familiarity with the case made him the better judge, but pointing out that a fresh eye would also be a benefit. Jack wasn’t sure how quickly Sawyer could dust off his detective skills with a new city and new partner to get used to, but Jack was at least happy to see him try. It would make his remaining days that much easier to bear.

With a heavy sigh, Jack turned in the spray and let it hammer into his back as he leaned his aching head against the cooler tiles of the shower stall. He just had to see it through until this case was done. That was all.

*******

Jack balanced the Starbucks cup in the hand that was holding his briefcase as his other keyed in the access code for the Homicide offices. He frowned as he spotted the strip lights on at his end of the floor, finally spotting Sawyer’s slouched form seemingly entranced by the blank computer screen in front of him.

As he rounded his deck, Sawyer seemed to break out of his thoughts and smiled brightly as Jack dropped his case on the desk.

Jack found himself smiling in return, nodding his head in greeting. “It’s not often I find someone in here before me,” he said.

Sawyer shrugged as he let his feet drop from where he’d propped them up on the desk. He closed the file that had laid open in his lap and dropped it onto his keyboard as he straightened. “Yeah well, couldn’t sleep so I decided to try and see if I could catch up a bit.”

Jack nodded knowingly, but didn’t reply. Looking closely at Sawyer he could now see the dark marks under his eyes that spoke of more than one night of restless sleep, and a slightly haunted look suggesting that the reasons for that were not altogether pleasant.

He was taking a sip of coffee as the phone on his desk rang loudly in the empty room. He ignored Sawyer’s raised eyebrow as he glanced at his watch before finally grabbing the receiver.

“Homicide, Shephard speaking.”

“Shit. You sure?”

“Where?” he said grabbing a pad and pencil from the mess on his desk.

“I’ll get someone over. Don’t touch anything!”

Jack replaced the phone and sat on his chair as he scribbled on the notepad. Sawyer waited until he finished before speaking.

“So what’s up?”

Jack looked up from where he’d been staring at the paper, a frown upon his face. “We’ve got another serial murder - another stabbing.”

“So what’re we sittin’ here for?” Sawyer asked.

Jack glanced over at Locke’s empty desk. “John normally does the fieldwork.”

Sawyer glanced over his shoulder at Locke’s desk before turning his attention back to Jack. “You tellin’ me you don’t go to the scene?” he asked incredulously.

Jack shrugged. “Locke makes thorough notes, I get everything else I need from the reports and photos that come in.”

“How the hell do you expect to catch the fucker if you don’t go and stand in his footsteps?” Sawyer asked, pulling his leather jacket from the back of his chair as he stood.

Jack watched him a moment. “I do ok.”

“Well Sherlock, your bad guy’s still out there and you ain’t caught him, so I figure you’ll do a hell of a lot better if you get off your ass and go take a look at the scene.”

Jack watched Sawyer pull his Beretta from the top drawer of his desk and place it in his shoulder holster, and sighed as Sawyer glared at him impatiently. He pulled his Smith & Wesson from the front pocket of his briefcase, kicking the bag under his desk as he clipped the holster onto his belt. Grabbing the notebook from the desk, he turned and gestured for Sawyer to lead the way. As he followed, Jack plucked his mobile from his pocket and pressed the speed dial.

“Sir, it’s me. We’ve got another murder, I’m heading to the scene with Sawyer.”

He nodded his thanks as Sawyer held the lift door open for him, ignoring the smug smirk on the Southerner’s face as he let the Captain know where they were going.

*******

“This is wrong.”

Sawyer flicked his gaze from the victim to Jack, watching as he circled the room, weaving around the CSI team as they dusted, picked, and prodded all the surfaces in the apartment.

“What do you mean?” Sawyer asked, trying to recall information from the previous killings and compare that to what was here.

Jack stopped his pacing and glanced up from the body. “It’s too messy,” he said.

Sawyer glanced around the scene again, trying to work out just what Jack was talking about. He’d seen murder scenes with a hell of a lot more ‘mess’ than what Jack was hinting at. The apartment reminded him of his own – minimalist. There weren’t many personal touches in the room, only necessary items; a couch, a TV, a low set glass coffee table that was now shattered into pieces from where the deceased had fallen through it. There were no rugs, or pictures, or lamps, or ornaments. Light filtered throughout the room from a single bulb encased by a shade that had likely been left over from a previous tenant.

Sawyer squinted as one of the guys in white suits opened the heavy-lined curtains, the early morning light now shining uninhibited into the room and landing ethereally on the twisted form of the deceased, victim number 6 – once known as Mark Gordon. There was barely any blood splatter, no tipped furniture or signs of a struggle, no turned out drawers to indicate the suspect was looking for something. Sawyer frowned. “Meanin’?”

Jack sighed and walked over to join Sawyer in the doorway. “It’s messy - the front door was left open, letting us discover this way quicker than we should have. There’s a partial footprint in the blood, the broken table, the spilled coffee.”

Sawyer turned his head trying to spot what Jack was seeing.

“The scenes are normally cleansed before forensics even get near them. They’re too perfect, the killer even cleans up after the victim. Here he’s left the mug laying on the carpet, the footprint, the open door...”

“Maybe he got spooked, thought someone had heard something. I mean, this is an apartment complex, must be some nosy neighbors.”

Jack shook his head. Sawyer watched as he worried his bottom lip with his teeth.

“Is this the first one since your partner?” Sawyer asked gently.

Jack’s gaze swung round to him, stilling him under the intensity of the glare. Sawyer kept his eyes on Jack, trying to exude reasoning rather than emotion. Eventually Jack sighed, rubbing a hand over his shorn hair. “Yeah,” he finally admitted.

“How long ago?”

“Just over a month,” Jack said quietly. “Normally the murders are several months apart, almost as though the urge is appeased, before he starts again.”

“So he’s broken his pattern. He must know he killed a cop, and he almost got caught last time so he’s going to get out quicker, not hang around playing house.”

“He’s lost control.”

Sawyer shrugged. “Could be. If he’s making mistakes now, it’s either because he’s scared shitless but can’t stop himself, or he’s realized he’s gone too far and wants to be caught.”

Jack turned and walked towards the open door of the apartment, his unfocussed gaze not seeing the people gathered beyond the police tape. Sawyer saw the unemployed that would use the police presence as their entertainment. He saw the people in suits that were going to be late for work, but were sure to be heading in with an excuse they were only too happy to tell over and over again. He read curious expressions, and tried to filter out those that would open their door to them merely for company in an otherwise lonely world, and those that might actually be able to tell them anything.

“This is the first time he’s gone for someone in a complex,” Jack finally said, interrupting Sawyer’s own thoughts. “There’s security on the building with the buzzer system, although he may have followed someone in or buzzed another apartment, but then he’s still got to get in here without being seen. There are no scratches on the lock to say he picked it, so someone had to let him in.”

Sawyer turned his gaze away from the onlookers as Jack swung round to look at him. “What kind of people do you let in your door?”

Sawyer cocked an eyebrow. “I guess we do door to door and see if anyone saw anything,” he said reluctantly.

Jack smiled slightly. “Can you remember how to do it?” he teased.

Sawyer grinned. “Who needs to remember? One look at these dimples and I’ll have them eating out of my hands.”

Jack snorted and headed out of the door, Sawyer watched him duck under the tape and speak to the people gathered there before he made a move to follow him.

*******

“Yeah, thanks anyway.”

Sawyer watched as Jack dropped the phone back into the cradle and leant back in the chair.

“Scratch that theory then?” he asked, as he watched Jack run his hands over his hair in frustration.

“Yeah,” Jack sighed.

Sawyer dragged the pen through the line of text on the paper in front of him. “So none of our vic’s have in common gas companies, electricity companies, water companies, exterminators, government inspectors…”

“Well, it could have been but not legit companies.” Jack sat back in his chair. “So if our killer is getting into each of the properties with seemingly legit excuse it’s not likely that it’s any of the utility companies or the government,” Jack reasoned tiredly.

“So any other ideas?” Sawyer huffed.

“Just one.”

Sawyer frowned and straightened. “And what’s that?”

Jack tilted his head towards Sawyer, a troubled expression on his face. “A cop,” he said finally.

“Real or fake?”

Jack shrugged, tipping his chair forward as he moved to lean his elbows on the desk and rest his head in his hands. Sawyer empathized with the frustration and the tiredness and he’d only been looking at the case for two days. “I don’t know,” Jack said into his hands. “There must be something that connects the victims.”

Sawyer watched Jack in silence, his mind playing with the facts as they stood and the possible implications of what they were looking at, his fingers idly tapping his pen in a staccato rhythm against his thigh as he did so. Jack was invested in the case - realistically he was too close to it what with losing his partner, but Sawyer doubted Christian Shephard would cut his son any slack when it came to high profile investigations. No-one could have failed to see the tension rolling off Jack as he’d stormed back from a meeting with his father earlier in the day, one Sawyer was glad he’d been excluded from. He had a feeling that Jack’s temper was not something he wanted to face any time soon.

His rhythm stuttered and stalled as he watched Locke approach them, and he cleared his throat to give Jack the warning. When Jack looked up he blinked blankly at him, until Sawyer tilted his head towards where John now stood.

“I just wondered how you boys had got along this morning,” John asked.

Jack leaned back in his chair again as he looked at Locke, before he nodded. “Fine,” he said simply. “We’re still waiting on forensics and the coroner’s reports so nothing much to go on yet.”

John nodded. “Usually goes that way,” he said. “Guess it makes a change having to get out there and catalogue the scene.”

Jack frowned slightly, but nodded. “Well, I guess that’s the price you pay for getting in early.”

“Can you let me know what comes out of the reports?” Locke asked. “I’d like to know what I missed.”

“Sure,” Jack said.

Locke nodded once to Jack, before turning to Sawyer. “James,” he acknowledged before walking away.

“Asshole,” Sawyer growled under his breath.

Jack snorted and shook his head.

“What the hell is his problem?” Sawyer asked, his gaze tracking Locke back to his desk before he turned to Jack.

Jack shrugged. “He never really mixes much. He had some family issues a year or two back and since then the Department has made him go to anger management courses.”

“Doesn’t seem all that angry to me,” Sawyer said.

“He’s not,” Jack admitted. “He’s one of the calmest people I’ve met, but I guess someone knows more than we do.”

Sawyer nodded, watching Jack for a moment before his gaze swung to the window. Outside the city was beginning to shut down its working day and move into the night. The sun had disappeared a while back, and the lights in the office block across the street were flicking off one by one each time he glanced out. It had been a long day and they weren’t getting any closer to solving the case. Sawyer turned back to Jack and cleared his throat. “Listen, you wanna grab a drink or something, come back to this tomorrow with a clearer head?”

Jack flicked his gaze to Sawyer, seemingly trying to read something into the offer, looking for the answer to in Sawyer’s eyes. Sawyer wasn’t sure why he asked the question in the first place, wasn’t like he’d ever made a habit of socializing with the guys from the office. Sawyer couldn’t help wanting to know more, and he sure as hell wasn’t ready to head back to his dark apartment with some take-out just yet, no matter how beat he was.

Uncomfortable with the continued scrutiny, Sawyer ducked his head, licking his lips before he spoke again. “Look, doesn’t matter,” he said. He grabbed the notes from his desk and shuffled them together, stuffing them into one of the spare manila files Jack had dug out for him earlier. He opened the middle drawer of his desk and dropped the file in before standing.

As he grabbed his jacket, Jack seemed to reach his decision.

“Where do you live?”

Sawyer frowned, “Out Lennox way,” he admitted reluctantly, knowing the area wasn’t somewhere cops would dare to frequent when off-duty.

Jack stood and pulled on his suit jacket. “There’s a good bar down on the beach, quiet, good home cooking...?”

It was phrased as hesitantly as Sawyer’s own question had been and he smiled. “Sounds good.”

*******

Jack held the door open for Sawyer to follow him into the Coyote Cantina. He held his breath as he turned his attention to the inside - he hadn’t been in here since he left for Phuket and he wasn’t sure what his reception would be, but he figured he at least had to make an effort at some point or other. Having a stranger to back him up would likely help.

The door had barely swung back on its hinges when a shout suddenly went out in the bar.

“JACK!”

Jack winced at the volume, but smiled honestly as the owner of the cantina practically ran across the room and enveloped him in a massive bear hug. He could hear Sawyer’s snort behind him, but was too busy trying to extricate himself from the embrace.

“Hey Hurley, good to see you too.”

“Man, I am so glad to see you back here. I called round a few times but you weren’t home. You had me worried.”

Jack winced and muttered a heartfelt ‘sorry’.

“Look dude, I’m sorry about Boone,” Hurley said softly.

Jack nodded uncomfortably, “Yeah, thanks.”

Before the silence could become too awkward, Jack heard Sawyer coughing behind him. Jack sent a grateful look over his shoulder. “Hurley, I’d like you to meet my new partner, Sawyer. Sawyer, this is Hurley, owner of the cantina.”

Hurley reached past Jack and grabbed Sawyer’s hand in both his, shaking it vigorously. “Hey, nice to meet you, Sawyer. Make sure you look after this guy!”

Sawyer frowned, but nodded anyway, “I’ll try.”

Jack shook his head and smiled slightly. “So, everything ok with you?”

“Great! I finally got the Camaro on the road!”

“Really?” Jack asked, “You’re going to have to let me take her for a spin,” he finished with a grin.

“Sure dude, just as soon as you let me at that Kawasaki,” Hurley said, a finger prodding Jack in the chest.

Jack snorted. “You know that’s not going to happen, Hurley.”

“Yeah man, I rest my case!”

Jack laughed. “Yeah ok. Listen, I promised Sawyer a drink and some home cooking.”

“Hey, well this is the place, you want your usual booth Jack?”

“Sure,” Jack shrugged. He hadn’t set foot in that booth for three months, since the time when he came in here to drink, to forget, and to make sure he slept through the night. It was time he put that part of his life to bed.

Jack followed Hurley to the booth, sensing Sawyer just behind him. He slid into the familiar leather seat, one hand skimming the dark wood of the tables, biting back on the memories that threatened to rise.

“What can I get you guys to drink?”

“Just a Dos Equis,” Jack said.

“Sure, same here,” Sawyer said as he slipped into the other side of the table. “Nice place,” he said as he slipped off his jacket, adjusting the loose over-shirt he wore to hide the ever-present shoulder holster.

Jack nodded as he cast his eyes over the cantina, noting that nothing had changed since he’d last been in. The wooden floors still shone, seemingly impervious to any beer or food that spilled on its surfaces. The walls were still adorned with colorful representatives of rock heroes, guitars and other music memorabilia that Hurley had collected over the years. It was homage to his musical loves, and would likely put Hard Rock’s collections to shame. In the background, the strains of Van Halen trickled through the speakers, and the smell of fresh Mexican food invaded the senses. Jack wondered why he’d ever stayed away.

“So how’d you find this place?” Sawyer asked, breaking into Jack’s reverie.

“Guess you could say it’s my local,” Jack admitted, his fingers tracing the familiar knots on the table in front of him.

“So you’re living in surfer’s paradise and you got a Kawasaki sat at home, anything else you’re gonna surprise me with?”

Jack glanced up at Sawyer, “Probably,” he said, with a smirk.

Before Sawyer could reply Hurley came back with their beers and a couple of menus. “The beers are on the house. Just let me know what you want to eat and I’ll get it cooked up for you.”

“Thanks Hurley,” Jack said as he grabbed the menus. After a quick glance, he set the menu to one side and took a long pull of the beer, before resting the cool bottle against his forehead.

“So how d’you afford a place on the beach then?” Sawyer asked.

Jack flicked his gaze back to Sawyer, finding the man’s attention fixed on him, Jack set the bottle back on the table and shrugged, figuring it couldn’t hurt to open up a bit. “My mom’s side of the family has money. My grandparents bought it for me as a wedding present.”

Jack watched as Sawyer frowned slightly and his eyes tracked to Jack’s empty ring finger before returning to Jack’s face. “No I’m not still married.” He snorted before shifting in his seat. “I guess the rumor’s true that cops can’t hold down a steady relationship. I guess I wasn’t at home as much as I could have been.”

Sawyer nodded. “Sorry,” he said awkwardly.

“Yeah,” Jack said simply, before taking another pull of the beer. He watched as Sawyer turned his attention back to the menu, fully aware that the silence was now uncomfortable. “The burritos are good,” he offered.

Sawyer glanced up and smiled, closing the menu, he nodded. Hurley chose that moment to return, as though he’d been keeping watch, and they gave their orders before he left them in peace again.

Jack watched as Sawyer picked at the label on his beer bottle. “So what brings you to LA?”

Sawyer shrugged. “Needed an out. I got my cover blown, needed to leave Vegas and got the offer here. Always wanted to see the Pacific.”

“Home’s further away than Vegas though,” Jack probed.

“Yeah well, Alabama has its moments, but it ain’t got a party town. Did a bit of traveling around before I settled on Vegas, and like the slogan says, it’s Sin City. Keeps us in business.”

“What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas,” Jack muttered.

“Yeah,” Sawyer said.

Jack heard the finality in that one word, sensing that Sawyer was going to hold onto his secrets, at least for now, so he didn’t push it. Instead he leaned back in his seat, running the bottle idly over the polished wood leaving trails of condensation across the surface. “So how do you like the department?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Got more money flying around it than I’ve seen before on the Job.”

Jack shrugged. “Yeah well, my father’s a good business man, he can convince anyone that the budget needs raising.”

“Strange fella, your daddy.”

Jack frowned. “In what way?”

“Don’t act like any Captain I’ve met before, but he’s got everyone jumping around after him. Not sure I can picture him in blues kicking down some lowlife’s front door and reading him his rights.”

Jack laughed. “Yeah, I know what you mean,” he said, before sobering. “Christian is used to getting what he wants. He’ll find some way to manipulate you in order to get it, so watch your back.”

Jack wasn’t sure why he was bothering to warn Sawyer, but if he was going to leave him to fend for himself with Christian after he left, he may as well give him some pointers. He watched as Sawyer’s face broke into a wide smirk.

“I tend to get a good handle on people, I don’t reckon the Captain will get too many over me without me makin’ his life hell every now and again.”

“Yeah well,” Jack said with a smile, “you might want to watch your back anyway, because if he doesn’t get what he wants, he won’t get off your case until you cave in.”

“He married your ma for the money then?”

Jack almost spat out the beer he was drinking at Sawyer’s words. He swallowed roughly and frowned at the Southerner, his eyes meeting Sawyer’s steady gaze. Eventually he sighed and set the beer back on the table. “He’s got a house in Laurel Canyon, and a trophy wife that takes him to all the society parties. He’s got more money and status, hell, even better connections, than the Chief of Police. I imagine he’s slept with every woman he’s wanted to, and he’s a bastard to my mom. But she married him because she wanted to snub her parents by marrying against their wishes, so they’re well suited to one another. If she manages to get through a day without emptying a bottle of Moet, it’s rare and she makes less sense than when she’s drunk. But that’s not a big problem because chances are there’ll be an empty bottle of my dad’s scotch sitting beside hers.”

Jack watched as Sawyer visibly winced, figuring the man was sorry he asked, and Jack was almost as sorry he let himself say it, but sometimes it just felt good to get his frustrations out there. The meeting earlier with Christian had set him on edge, and whereas Jack normally would go home and pound out his anger on the sidewalk or beach on a run, he wasn’t going to get to do that tonight. Whatever it was about Sawyer that made Jack feel like he had an ally had made him be far more honest than he had been since Sarah left.

Jack was saved from saying anything else stupid by the arrival of their food and a fresh beer. The silence fell for a few minutes while they ate, but this time it was more companionable, and Jack found himself finally relaxing.

Eventually Sawyer broke the peace as he shoved his empty plate to one side. “You were right, Hurley’s burritos are good.”

Jack smiled and nodded. “Just don’t get into a tequila slamming competition with him, cos you won’t win.”

Sawyer laughed. “Yeah, I’d have guessed as much.” He took a long pull of his beer before speaking again. “Anything Hurley ain’t so good at?”

Jack paused as he thought. “Well, poker nights were always fun, Hurley normally ends up putting beer in the pot when he runs out of chips.”

“Poker, huh?”

Jack nodded mutely. Part of him missed the regular nights, but he wasn’t ready to get back into socializing, and with his intention to leave LA, he didn’t feel right dropping in only to leave again.

“And what about you, Jack, you end up bartering with beer?”

“I can hold my own,” he replied. He held himself motionless under Sawyer’s scrutiny until the green eyes looked away first, hoping Sawyer got the double meaning of his words. He pushed aside his almost empty plate and pulled the remains of his beer towards him.

“You really reckon this serial killer’s made a mistake?” Sawyer asked.

Jack slouched back against the seat as his fingers toyed with the edges of the label on the bottle. “I think this is the first break in the pattern,” Jack admitted. “He’s been incredibly organized up until now. This is the first time he’s left anything at the scene that we could use to identify him. He’s controlled the crime scene so far - with this it’s almost as though he’s given up cleaning up after himself.”

“He wants to be caught?”

“Yeah,” Jack agreed. “I think he knows it’s gone too far, but he can’t stop himself.”

“You think we can catch him before he does it again?”

Jack shrugged and wiped a hand across tired eyes. “I hope so, but I guess he’s not predictable anymore. Who knows when he’s going to strike next?”

Sawyer dropped his napkin onto his empty plate. “Why don’t we head off, get a good nights sleep and go at it fresh tomorrow.”

Jack nodded, suddenly finding the events of the day catching up to him. He pulled out his wallet and tossed sufficient bills on the table to cover the food and the beers Hurley had said were on the house, and shook off Sawyer’s attempt to pay half. He waved a goodbye to Hurley as he stood, tossing back an acknowledgment when Hurley shouted out that he better not leave it as long next time.

He followed Sawyer out of the bar and into the dark of the cool evening. Jack took a deep breath, tasting the salt on the sea air as he did so. He glanced across the water. Out on the horizon a light flickered and bobbed on the waves, the only indication that anything was moving out in the inky darkness. “You want a lift home?” Jack finally asked as he tugged on his jacket.

Sawyer shook his head as he tucked his hands into his jeans pockets. “No I’m good. I’ll grab a cab back to the office, drive home from there. See you tomorrow,” Sawyer said with a nod of farewell.

Jack watched him walk off down the sidewalk for a moment before he turned away to return to his car, his mind spinning with thoughts of the case, and thoughts about Sawyer.

*******

“Haven’t you got anyone else to do this shit?” Sawyer asked as he dropped his pen on the desk. He shook his hand, trying to get rid of the cramp he’d gotten from writing too many lines that were rapidly beginning to seem pointless.

Jack paused and looked up from where he was engrossed in the files spread out in front of him. “Yeah, but I like to do a lot of it myself, that way I have a solid grasp on what’s going on.”

“You know, people get paid to do this - we don’t,” Sawyer grouched.

Jack sighed tiredly and sat upright. “There’s been researchers and analysts looking over this stuff since the start, and nothing’s come of it yet.”

“All the more reason for us not to be wastin’ our time doing it.”

“So what would you be doing, Sawyer?” Jack asked, his own frustration bubbling out. “Cos as far as I know, we asked all the right questions yesterday and nobody came up with anything.”

“Well, maybe, one of them was lyin’.”

“Well, maybe you can tell me which one and then you can go arrest them.”

“It’d give me something productive to do,” Sawyer moaned.

“You are doing something productive!” Jack protested.

Sawyer dragged a hand roughly through his hair in frustration. “I don’t see how goin’ through every file by hand, listin’ the tiniest details is going to bring up anything that hasn’t been looked at before.”

“Fine,” Jack said as he stood abruptly from his chair. “Then why don’t you go chase up the coroners report, and see what forensics managed to get from the scene.”

Sawyer huffed as Jack grabbed his mug from his desk and turned to make an undignified retreat to the break room. Before he got more than a couple of steps, Sawyer watched him stop suddenly, a muttered expletive sounding on his breath.

Frowning, Sawyer turned to follow his gaze, to where one of the civilian staff at the other end of the floor was trying to stop someone from getting any further into the office. Sawyer watched as the young woman pushed past regardless, long slender legs striding purposefully down the center of the room towards where Jack had stopped dead. She had long blonde hair, straight and cut into the latest fashion, high-end designer clothing closely fitting her petite frame. Sawyer would have turned on the charm, if her whole demeanor didn’t speak of money and privilege and of her getting her own way.

Sawyer glanced briefly back at Jack, wondering if the person striding towards them was Jack’s ex-wife, but he dismissed that almost as soon as the thought emerged. She seemed too young for Jack, and from what Sawyer had determined of Jack’s personality so far, she seemed too high maintenance for him as well, despite those society circles his father clearly thrived on.

The staccato of her heels slowed as she neared Jack, and Sawyer took a moment to sit back and watch the play of emotions on both their faces. Jack looked nervous, uncomfortable. The girl looked like she’d claw his face off, until you saw the vulnerability in her eyes, the sheen indicating she was close to crying.

“Shannon,” Jack greeted softly.

“Jack,” the girl replied haughtily.

“How are you doing?”

Sawyer cringed inwardly at the poor choice of words, watching Shannon’s back straighten.

“How do you think I’m doing Jack?” she asked. “You found another one didn’t you? Seven weeks and you’re no closer to catching the bastard than you were when they found the first one.”

“Shannon…”

“Tell me you’re going catch him, Jack. Promise me!”

Her anger faded away with the last two words that became a plea, and Sawyer watched as the haughty veneer cracked and a single tear fell from her eyes. He saw Jack swallow hard and pulled Shannon into a loose embrace.

“I’ll get him Shannon, I swear,” Jack whispered.

Sawyer believed him. Whether Shannon did or not, he couldn’t tell, but Sawyer was sure Jack believed his own words, even if it was because he refused to believe in the alternative. The embrace didn’t last long before Shannon pulled back, a soft sniff and a single nod of her head. She straightened herself and turned on her heel, without saying goodbyes. Sawyer watched her as she made her way back down the corridor, back straight, steady on those high heels as she strode away, the step faltering only slightly as she passed Locke’s desk and turned briefly to stare. Locke had the chagrin to turn his head away from her look, before she walked on.

At the deep sigh next to him, Sawyer turned his attention back to Jack. The exchange seemed to have taken even more of the energy out of him. He watched as Jack picked his mug back up from where he’d abandoned it, and trudged wearily towards the break room. Sawyer’s gaze flicked briefly to Locke as he also tracked Jack’s progress, before grabbing his own mug and following.

Sawyer stepped aside as one the Robbery detectives made a hasty exit from the break room. Walking inside he shut the door and leaned back against it to make sure no-one was going to interrupt. Jack was leaning against the counter-top, letting his arms take the strain, head bowed as coffee machine dripped next to him. He didn’t glance back as the door shut, but Sawyer figured he knew who had followed him.

“That was Shannon Rutherford,” Jack said quietly. “Boone’s sister.”

Sawyer nodded, although he knew Jack couldn’t see it. “You goin’ to tell me what happened?”

Jack sighed deeply and turned, resting his back against the counter as he did so. “You sure you don’t want to ask Locke?” he said bitterly.

“Like to hear an honest answer, figure you’re the best bet,” Sawyer replied.

Jack folded his arms across his chest in a protective gesture before he finally began to speak. “Boone shouldn’t have been in the department. There’s no way he had the plainclothes experience to be taken on just yet, but he was at the scene of the first murder. It wasn’t until the second murder, four months later, that they figured there was the possibility of a serial killer. That’s when the case moved here, and Boone was seconded temporarily since he had knowledge of the first crime scene. He was only supposed to be here a week, but we were low on man-power and he was happy to do the leg-work, so Dad kept him on.”

Jack paused as he poured coffee into his cup, glancing at the cup Sawyer held in his own hands. Sawyer stepped forward long enough to hand over the mug and retrieve the full one before he returned to leaning back against the door. He watched as Jack took a tentative sip of the hot liquid before cradling the mug in his hands.

“I wasn’t here. I was forced to take some leave, so I wasn’t in the country, didn’t bother leaving a contact number. I can’t give you an honest answer, Sawyer.”

Sawyer watched Jack carefully, trying to read through what Jack was saying. It was clear the fact that he wasn’t there to protect the kid was torturing him. The need to make up for what Jack perceived as a failure on his part was what was driving him right now. Sawyer knew from experience what it was like to have that need be the only thing keeping you going when all your body and mind wanted to do was shut down. Whatever reason the Captain had for sending Jack on leave, must have been bad, because Sawyer couldn’t picture Christian loosening up on his son and giving him some slack out of the goodness of his heart. Whatever the reason was, Jack blamed himself for not being there.

Feeling Jack’s scrutiny, Sawyer lifted his eyes to meet Jack’s expressive brown ones and shrugged, “So tell me the official answer.”

Jack looked away. Sawyer wasn’t sure if he was going to get any response, but some of the tension seemed to leave Jack’s frame as he slumped further against the counter.

“Locke’s been to every single crime scene. He measures, he sketches, he describes even the most minute details. When another murder was reported Dad decided to send Boone with him to see if he could pick up some tips.” Jack paused as he took another sip of the coffee. “Uniform was on the scene, but the forensics team had yet to arrive. I guess they didn’t check over the house, make sure it was secure because the next minute Boone’s laying at the bottom of the stairs with a broken neck and John’s chasing off down the alleyway at the back of the house trying to tag whoever did it.”

“Locke give a description?” Sawyer asked.

Jack shook his head. “He said he didn’t get a good look. He was upstairs having a look around when he heard Boone yell. By the time he’d got down the stairs and out of the open back door, the killer was long gone.”

“You think it was the same guy?”

Jack shrugged and sighed deeply. “I don’t know. The place was as clean as the other scenes, so if it was him he’d only just finished up. But I can’t see him hanging around if uniform had turned up.”

“Maybe he didn’t have time to get out, and knew the detectives were only the first of many to turn up and it was then or never,” Sawyer offered.

“Maybe,” Jack said, but Sawyer could tell he didn’t believe it.

Sawyer sighed and licked his lips. “How ‘bout I go check on what the sawbones has to say for himself, and get those Grissom wannabe’s to cough up the goods, and we can see if we get any closer to workin’ out what goin’ on in this sonnovabitch’s head.”

Jack nodded and pushed himself away from the counter, Sawyer stepped back from the door and moved to open it, pausing with his hand on the handle as Jack approached. “We’ll get the bastard,” Sawyer said.

Jack caught his determined look, but simply nodded silently. Sawyer opened the door and gestured for him to go first. Watching him walk slowly back to his desk, Sawyer wondered whether Jack would let go once this was all over. And if he did, whether anyone would be there to pick up the pieces.

*******

The single lamp on the desk was angled so that Jack didn’t have to strain tired eyes any more than he had already. The floor had emptied hours ago, long before which Jack had waved Sawyer off, saying he’d follow him out. The intention to leave ‘soon’ had been with him up until around 2am when he finally admitted to himself that what he was working on was going to take much longer. He finally felt that he’d found a pattern that could get him closer to working out the killer’s motives, and since it was the only break so far that seemed promising, Jack wasn’t ready to let it go.

He sat back tiredly in his seat as the computer started another search, weary eyes turned towards the windows where the rising sun was just breaking out on the horizon. The vertical blinds that covered the almost floor to ceiling windows were ajar, allowing streaks of reds and gold to creep into the office. The fluorescent strip lights failed to compete with the natural light that reflected and scattered as it bounced off the darkened windows of the high rise buildings lining the street outside.

Jack glanced at the clock in the corner of his computer screen and sighed. It wouldn’t be the first, nor the last, all-nighter he’d pulled, but it was the first that had made him think he was getting too old for the job. The screen flickered as the search results came up, and Jack groaned at the number of returns. Figuring he better start somewhere, he clicked open the first report and leaned back in his chair, silently hoping that something would come of it.

*******

Sawyer let the door to Robbery-Homicide slam behind him as he spotted Jack sat at his desk. His posture was a picture of weariness, but also of extreme concentration, yet not even the harsh sound of the door closing in the silence of the room seemed to break into his world. Sawyer sauntered through the office, waiting to see at which point Jack would actually acknowledge his presence.

As he neared, Sawyer realized that Jack was still wearing the same clothes he had yesterday. His usually starched and pristine appearance was somewhat ruffled this morning. The navy tie was loosened around his neck, and the top two buttons of the now creased white shirt opened. As he neared their desks, Sawyer noticed that Jack had relaxed enough to roll his shirt sleeves up. A flash of color where there shouldn’t have been drew Sawyer’s eye to the skin on the inside of Jack’s arm. The last thing Sawyer expected to see on Jack’s skin was tattoos, and he took a moment to file the information away as a reminder to not judge so quickly.

He made it all the way to his desk before Jack finally looked up. A brief flash of surprise was followed by a glance at his watch and a stretch that made Sawyer wince at the pops it produced.

“You go home at all?” he asked. Jack shrugged and smiled sheepishly. Sawyer shook his head. “You want coffee?”

“Better get two,” Jack said. “I think I found something.”

**

Sawyer got his first look at the Robbery-Homicide meeting room as Jack held the door open for him. Shephard clearly had not sat on the checkbook when it came to his domain, although he’d opted for a more modern and fresher opulence in here than he had in his own office. The large glass table dominated the center of the room, surrounded by black leather chairs. The crisp white walls held photos of the LAPD at its finest, the long wall boasting the LAPD crest at its center. The floor-to-ceiling windows were blacked-out to anyone outside, but no blinds covered the windows here, allowing everyone present to have a good view of the city.

Jack shoved the door shut with a foot, balancing his files in one hand and the coffee Sawyer had made in the other.

“So, what can’t you discuss in the office then, Sherlock?” Sawyer asked as he dropped his frame into one of the seats, his body instinctively relaxing into a slouch.

Jack frowned briefly at the use of the nickname, but didn’t comment. Instead he opened the top file and slid it along the glass surface towards Sawyer.

“None of the victims exist before getting to LA,” he stated.

He was clearly waiting for Sawyer’s reaction before continuing; not that Sawyer could hold back his confusion. “What do you mean, they don’t exist?” he asked, watching as Jack, despite pulling an all-nighter, managed to find some animation.

“All the victims rented their properties, and the longest any of them had been there was just over eight months.”

Sawyer flicked through the photos of each of the victims’ properties, noting the absence of any real personality in the decorations, the lack of anything that Sawyer would say made the houses homely. Jack continued as he flicked through the images.

“They all provided references to the landlords,” Jack as continued as Sawyer glanced at the photos. “But typically, no-one followed them up. I checked the references and none of them are legit, so I backtracked the victims’ names beyond government systems.” Jack paused again. “Outside of their tenancy agreements, I barely got any hits.”

“So what are you sayin’ exactly?” Sawyer dropped the file on the table. Jack plucked another one off the pile he’d brought in with him and handed it to Sawyer, waiting for him to open it before continuing.

“I’m saying that maybe these guys are John Doe’s - that our vics aren’t quite as innocent as we thought,” he said softly. “Instead of searching by name, I ran a series of facial recognition searches, and each of them came back with records.”

Sawyer flicked open the file and scanned down the first of the victims.

“Jackson was arrested in New York three years ago for deception under the alias of Robert Halton. Carter is down as wanted for fraud in Newton County, Georgia under the name of Harry Brannon. All of them, they’ve all got fraud or deception links, but not to the names we’ve assigned to them.”

“Con men.”

“So the question is, how the hell do you track a con man?” Jack asked. Sawyer glanced up at Jack, reading only an honest question he thought Sawyer could answer.

“If they’re any good… you don’t,” Sawyer said simply.

“Well someone’s found a way,” Jack said, leaning back in the chair.

Sawyer tapped his fingers on the glass table, watching each finger as it left a smeared print on the polished surface. Murder wasn’t his area of expertise, it was Jack’s; yet to get to the victims you needed to see who and what they were, and in that he was the one with the connections, and the bad experiences to boot.

“These guys all been caught at some point?” he asked Jack.

Jack nodded, flicking through his notes even though he doubtless knew the answer. “All under some other name, but yeah.”

Sawyer ran a hand through his hair, pushing the bangs back from his face, his hand just resting on the crown of his head as he thought. “The best conmen work alone. They’re the guys you never know about because half the time their marks don’t even realize they’ve been conned. You get caught and people know your face, you have to move on. If you move on, chances are you’re gonna move in on someone’s turf and nine times out of ten they’re gonna know and they ain’t gonna be happy.”

“You think the local cons are giving them up?” Jack asked.

Sawyer shrugged. “You still think the killer’s a cop?”

Sawyer watched as Jack shifted in his seat. His gaze was on his hand where it rested on top of the pile of files on the table. Sawyer wasn’t sure if Jack was ready to have faith in his own theories, and in this instance Jack didn’t have any proof he could use to back them up. No forensics, no coroner’s reports, no witnesses. From what Sawyer had pieced together Jack was a man of science; he relied on facts and proof and rarely went beyond the evidence. But facts and proof were thin on the ground in this case and Jack was going to have to go outside his comfort zone.

After what seemed like a lifetime, Jack finally raised his eyes to meet Sawyer’s, and he was surprised to read the determination in his gaze. Jack nodded once. Decisively. “Yeah, I do.”

Sawyer paused a beat, before he answered Jack’s nod with one of his own. “Fine.”

Jack frowned. “Fine?”

“Yeah fine,” Sawyer said. “You might be right.”

“You’re not going to disagree with me?”

Sawyer shrugged. “Could be a cop, could be someone who ain’t too happy people are poachin’ on his territory. What makes you so sure?”

It was Jack’s turn to shrug, his gaze turning to where his fingers toyed with the edge of one of the folders. “Call it gut instinct,” he said softly.

“You sure it ain’t indigestion?” Sawyer said, a smirk spreading across his face.

Jack’s head whipped up, an angry retort on the tip of his tongue, but he caught himself as he recognized Sawyer’s expression. Instead he wiped a hand across his eyes and Sawyer was reminded that Jack was working on fumes after a night burning the midnight oil.

“Look, sorry…”

Jack waved him off before he got any further. “Forget it, long night.” Running a hand raggedly across his shorn hair, he sighed. “Have you got any ideas of where we can look for whoever’s giving these guy’s up?”

One name came to mind, someone who might be able to provide a place to start, but Sawyer knew he’d be giving up that one favor he’d kept in reserve. He just had to convince Hibbs that the information was worth them evening the score.

“If you can give me some space to make a phone call I’ll see if I can get a name.”

*******

Christian stared at the two contrasting men seated in front of him. Two very different backgrounds and career paths and yet Christian had thrown them together to get results, to give Jack a wake-up call. They were supposed to be at odds with each other, and yet they sat across from him a picture of solidarity, but without a shred of proof to back up their theories.

“Do you expect me to believe that someone who works for this Force is actively taking matters into their own hands?”

Jack straightened in his seat. Sawyer, if anything slouched down further.

“Because if that’s what you are implying, you’re also suggesting that an LAPD officer is capable of murdering one of their own.”

Christian was caught in his son’s gaze as those brown eyes flickered with uncertainty. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Ford’s gaze passing back and forth between them, but Christian wasn’t about to back down. Ford sat there with a patience his profile hadn’t suggested, letting Jack dig a hole for himself.

“You can take it however you want,” Jack said, an edge to his voice that Christian noted. “The sites have all been forensically sterile, and there’s nothing the coroner can tell us beyond the obvious. Someone knows how to clean up so we won’t find anything, and they can also get in and out without anyone other than the victim knowing.”

“Which you believe means that it’s a police officer,” Christian finished. “But seeing as how you think you’ve determined a connection between the victims in terms of their vocation, I don’t see how you wouldn’t also presume that they could know their assailant.”

“We did, and that’s why we’re asking for your permission to go talk to this guy,” Jack pointed out.

“Yet you still think that an officer is the number one suspect.”

“You know what?” Jack said, standing abruptly. “You think what the hell you want, whatever works best for your corporate image.” Running a hand raggedly across his head Jack stalked towards the door. “You’re always telling me I should work off gut instinct, that the best cops do that and get results. Well, this is my gut instinct, and I should have known you wouldn’t believe me, should have known that it still wouldn’t be good enough for you. You know what pisses me off the most? You want me to be this hot shot hero, when you’ve only ever told me I was that I didn’t have what it takes.”

“Jack!” Christian’s voice stopped Jack as his hand grabbed the door handle. “Whatever you believe right now, it stays in this office. I’ll have no mention of this outside of these walls.”

Christian’s eyes bored into Jack’s until his son looked away, a brief glance to where Sawyer was still seated, before he opened the door and slammed it shut behind him. Christian didn’t need to peer through the closed blinds to know that Jack had stalked off away from the rest of the department. An instant later and Ford was unfolding from his slouch and making a move to follow. Christian stopped him as he stood up.

“And what is your position in all this?”

Ford eyed the door before he turned his attention back to Christian. “I think I’ve been here four days and I ain’t got much to say on a case that Shephard’s been working on for eighteen months.”

“Bullshit.” Ford frowned and straightened himself at a word he clearly hadn’t expected to come out of his Captain’s mouth. “You’ve got an opinion, James.”

“Yeah, but you may not like it,” Ford said. Christian held his gaze, a challenge, until after a pause Ford finally licked his lips and continued. “I think maybe you rag on his ass far more than you should. I think he’s gone over a shitload of reports so many times he knows more about this case than the damn killer. And I think you ain’t gonna be happy until you get handed a folded flag and pretend to give a shit when that three volley salute goes off as they lower his coffin.”

Ford moved to the door, an easy swagger carrying him across the office. Pausing as he laid a hand on the door handle, he turned back to face his boss. “For what little it’s worth, I think he may be right. I’ve seen almost as much shit hidin’ behind a badge as I have in front of it. And just so you know, I ain’t gonna to do your dirty work for you. If you want to bring Jack down, you do it your godammed self.”

Christian eyed the closed door, his mind trying to work out where and when he’d lost control. He knew Jack would not mention his theory outside of the office, no matter how angry or frustrated he was, he at least understood the importance of need-to-know in these cases. Christian’s issue was that the only control he had over his son and Ford came down to his rank.

Christian bent to open the bottom drawer of his desk. He lifted out the half-empty bottle of scotch and the crystal shot glass. Unscrewing the top, he poured a generous measure. The bottle landed back on his desk with a solid thud, and Christian loosened his tie before reaching for the glass, hoping to god he wouldn’t have to clear up the mess a serial killing police officer would create. But Christian was realistic enough to not place all his hope in silent prayer, knowing that it was better to be prepared for any eventuality. With the heavy weight of the glass of scotch in one hand, Christian began to sketch out the press conference with the other.

*******

Jack bowed his head as he rested his weight on hands that gripped the edge of the sink. Water streamed from the taps, but the plug barely maintained a seal, the level rising slowly in counterpoint to the efforts of the faucets. He stared into the water, lost to the relative silence and the thoughts running through his head.

Should he have expected Sawyer to back him up after only four days? It seemed to him like Sawyer had merely been along for the ride so far, although he knew he shouldn’t expect everyone to have the same familiarity with the case that he had, especially not when it was a new case, new city, new job… God, and now he was making up excuses in answer to his own frustrations.

He dipped his hands in the lukewarm water, cupping enough in his hands to douse his face. He let the excess drip as he turned off the taps, his eyes caught by the water level as he watched it slowly drop. As he reached for a paper towel, the bathroom door opened. A brief glance in the mirror reveled Sawyer ducking in the room, his posture indicating to Jack that he wasn’t going to make it out of the there without something being said. Tossing the paper towel, he turned and leant back against the cool tiles, the chill seeping through the wool of the jacket and the thin cotton shirt beneath. He folded his arms across his chest, feet crossed at the ankles. Lifting his head to face the Southerner, he was fully determined to wait out the silence until the other man spoke.

Sawyer stepped further into the room, his stance as defensive as Jack’s. Jack watched as he fidgeted slightly, the bravado disappearing momentarily as he seemed to war with himself over what to say.

“You ready to prove him wrong?”

Jack sighed deeply and dropped his head to stare at the scuffed floor tiles at his feet. His mind screamed a ‘hell yeah’ for his ears alone, but Jack bit back on vocalizing it. “I need this case done with.”

Sawyer nodded. “Yeah, I get that.”

Jack snorted and shook his head. “I’m leaving,” he said, raising his eyes to meet Sawyer’s. “As soon as this bastard is caught I’m going to take great pleasure in handing him my resignation.”

Jack didn’t know what he was looking for in Sawyer’s expression, maybe support… hell, maybe someone to ask him to stay. There was a brief flicker in Sawyer’s eyes, but what it meant, Jack couldn’t decipher.

“Well then, why don’t we see what we can do about getting’ you outta here? I figure if we apply just the right amount of persuasion to this lead we might actually get somewhere.”

Jack nodded once and pushed himself away from the wall.

“One thing though,” Sawyer said hesitantly.

Jack frowned as he straightened up.

“The man I got the lead from doesn’t know I’m a cop, therefore you’re gonna have to let me handle it.”

“Meaning?” Jack asked.

“Meaning that you go walkin’ in there looking like the cover of GQ and he’s gonna know you’re the law. You’ll have to let me handle it.”

Jack shook his head. “Not a chance.” No way was he letting Sawyer handle the one lead they’d got alone.

“I ain’t lettin’ you blow my cover,” Sawyer growled.

Jack maintained his ground as Sawyer took a step forward, the anger rippling off him. What Jack didn’t need was another fight on the heels of the last one, and certainly not when all he wanted to do was crawl into bed and stay there for a week.

“I’m not going to do that!” Jack bit out. “You’re not going alone. That doesn’t mean I won’t let you handle the questions - I do know when to hand over the lead. And if you’re that concerned about the suit then I’ll change it, I have stuff downstairs in the locker room.”

Jack held Sawyer’s gaze, stubborn facing stubborn, until Sawyer finally relented. “There’s a locker room?”

Jack snorted and shook his head. “Yeah well, if you follow me I’ll show you where it is.” He walked around Sawyer, holding the door open to let the Southerner through.

Sawyer paused in the doorway. “You better scrub down well, Slim, or I’m lockin’ you in the trunk.”

“Would you even know where the hell you’re supposed to be going?” Jack asked as he followed Sawyer to the stairwell.

Sawyer paused on the top step, “Hey, I can read a map.”

Jack snorted and shook his head, reaching out a hand he pushed Sawyer’s back to get him moving again. “Is that before or after you get yourself lost?”

*******

Sawyer stared out of the passenger window at the people who wandered past on the sidewalk. LA was a town of fakes, wannabe’s and beautiful people, and Sawyer felt right at home with them. It was a town where ‘less’ meant less, and ‘more’ got doors open for you. It was a town where fake was commonplace… he should fit right in, and yet it wasn’t the fake that was appealing. He risked a glance across to the passenger seat where Jack sat, his fingers idly tapping out a tuneless rhythm on the steering wheel as he waited for the cars in front to move that inch or two closer to an already choked up intersection.

Jack had asked him how he wanted to approach the meeting with Frank Duckett, what he wanted from him as back-up. It had taken Sawyer a moment to realize he was being asked for his guidance, used to so many years where he was given orders he had no choice but to ignore. In the end, the continuing silence, and Jack’s questioning gaze had resulted in Sawyer formulating a plan of action for once. The result was that Jack was going to be his silent security. He’d thought Jack would balk at the idea, but he’d merely shrugged and chosen his attire based on that persona. Sawyer had been surprised that Jack would take that level of care, but then he’d figured that Jack took his job seriously, and despite what his father or anyone else thought, he wasn’t prepared for anything to be fucked up on his watch.

The jeans he’d chosen were expensive enough to indicate power, but not flashy enough to draw attention. The simple black t-shirt was fitted and showed off enough muscle to deter anyone from thinking he was anything other than a tough fighter, and the leather jacket barely covered up the shoulder holster he’d donned instead of his normal rig. The dark shades hid tired eyes, yet Sawyer was confident those eyes would be alert enough to spot any trouble. The lack of a shave since the day prior had also left a shadow that added to the look. If Sawyer had been faced with this image, against the look Jack normally took into the office, he would have been hard-pushed to say they were the same person.

Sawyer didn’t know what Jack’s undercover experience was, he’d have placed a bet on it being limited, but Jack had managed to change his personality with his clothes, an edge creeping into him almost as soon as he’d closed his locker door. It had generated a few looks as they’d left the building, not least on the transport clerk’s face as Jack had checked out one of the higher performance covert cars. Jack had just ignored the silent stare as he’d plucked the keys from the clerk’s hands.

Sawyer slid deeper into his seat as the lights ahead of them shifted back to red without a single car getting through. “How do you ever get anywhere in this town?”

“You don’t. Unless you want to try walking.”

“Seems like hard work if you ask me,” Sawyer said.

“I think most people share that opinion, and that’s why we aren’t getting anywhere. People may be late for all their meetings but at least they look good when they get there.”

Sawyer snorted and turned his attention back out to the sidewalk. He folded his arms over his chest as he watched the people pass, the ones who clearly didn’t have the money looking like they’d already walked ten blocks.

Jack confused him. Sawyer should have been able to stand back and play Devil’s Advocate, to provoke and to be the same old sarcastic Ford that everyone refused to like. But Jack wasn’t the stereotype he’d immediately taken him to be, and Sawyer was enjoying peeling back the façade. He’d convinced himself initially that he was only doing it to keep his skills sharp, but Sawyer had found that some of those barriers he usually erected to protect himself had dropped unnoticed when he was focused on Jack. It wasn’t often someone had almost as much baggage as he did, and he sure as hell wasn’t coming face to face with it on a daily basis like Jack was. To most, Jack was a paper pusher who was happier behind a desk than he was on the streets, someone who wouldn’t know anything about the seedier aspects of life in the real world. But Sawyer was seeing layers peel away all the time, and there was nothing stereotypical about Jack Shephard. He’d tried to ask about the armful of tattoo’s he’d seen as Jack changed, but he’d all but clammed up, refusing to bite even as Sawyer prodded and poked to get a rise.

Having a partner was a novelty for Sawyer after the years of solo undercover work, and after the bust on the last job maybe part of him felt ready to shrug off that loner’s lifestyle and take a risk in trusting someone. He knew realistically that he hadn’t been around long enough to really know what Jack was about, yet despite that he wasn’t quite ready to see him leave. Sawyer just wondered if he had the right to ask him to stay for a while longer, so he could find out if he was right or wrong… to find out if trusting someone was really the weakness he’d convinced himself it was so many years ago.

Sawyer let his thoughts keep him company until the scenery he was barely acknowledging out of the passenger window started to blur as the car picked up speed on the less crowded roads. He shifted in his seat, straightening up from the slouch his body had relaxed into, and focused on the change in the neighborhood they were now traveling through. Gone were the stylish boutiques and the glowing green signs of a Starbucks at the corner of nearly every block. Instead the car was weaving through an area of the city that the tourists and the wealthy would only ever see from a distance as they shot down the freeway.

Litter-strewn parking lots outside drab gray warehouses dominated one side of the street, their tarmac full of rusting sedans in colors as insipid as the buildings they were parked in front of. Houses lined the other side, their front yards a mismatch of greens and browns where lawns struggled to survive. The paintwork on the house fronts was dulled by pollution and years of neglect.

“So how do you want to approach this?” Jack asked.

Sawyer pulled his attention from the scenery and turned back to Jack. He’d not disturbed Sawyer’s silence until he’d moved, either through respect or because of his own inner turmoil. Sawyer was inclined to believe in the former, a mental point he filed away for later. “Well, like I said before, the guy I called thinks I’m on his side of the law, and I ain’t about to change that understanding, so I figured I’d go in and point out to Duckett that maybe one or two of the dead guys were runnin’ a scam for me.”

“And just who are you going to be?” Jack asked. “We’re going to see this guy because it’s his turf - surely he’ll know who the other people are working his area. He’s going to know you’re new.”

“Figured that,” Sawyer said. “All the vic’s were relatively new in town, I’m just gonna be someone they owed money to, and I was collecting by having them do some jobs for me. Can’t collect on a dead man - figure anyone would be looking to regain their losses.”

“You’re going to play the pimp?” Jack asked. He turned to Sawyer with a slight smile on his face. Sawyer snorted and shook his head, wishing Jack’s shades weren’t so dark so that he could read his expression. One thing Jack couldn’t hide was the emotions that shone out through his eyes.

Sawyer waggled his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t be the first time!”

Jack laughed, or rather he giggled, a mannerism that Sawyer hadn’t been expecting from the straight-edged detective. Sawyer snorted and shook his head in wonder. “So you think you can play the bad boy?” he asked, an edge of seriousness creeping into his tone.

Jack flicked his gaze briefly from the road to look at Sawyer, and again the Southerner was left wishing for those shades to be out of the way. “Well, we’re about to find out,” he answered. “That’s the place, up there on the right.”

Sawyer followed the line of Jack’s pointed finger to a small warehouse set back slightly from the highway. As they neared it, he could make out the lettering on the aging sign advertising the home of ‘The Tustin Box Company’, although as Jack turned the Jag into the parking lot it became obvious that the company was no longer in business. All but one of the windows were boarded, and the iron gates over the warehouse entrance seemed rusted shut. Although as Jack brought the car to a stop, the new padlock that hung open on the front door to the offices indicated that someone was still using the building.

Sawyer shared a look with Jack, the other man straightening his shoulders at Sawyer’s nod. Jack pulled his gun out of his holster, flicking off the safety before he placed it back in the holster. At Sawyer’s raised eyebrow, Jack shrugged a shoulder. “May need it, may not. But if I do have to pull it, it’s going to be to shoot and I don’t want to be worrying about whether the safety’s off or not.”

“Just don’t shoot yourself in the foot, cos I ain’t carrying your ass back home.”

Jack shook his head and stepped out of the car. Sawyer followed as Jack walked across the lot, an edge to his step. He paused briefly as if listening for any movement in the building before opening the door. Sawyer took a deep breath as the musty smell from the interior sent him back to the last time he’d been undercover. He pushed the momentary panic down, forcing the memories back to where they’d taunt him later, no doubt when he tried to go to sleep tonight. His shoulder ached at the memory, but he resisted the urge to rub at it, focusing instead on the office and the space around him, turning his senses outwards.

Jack led the way down the gloomy corridor to where shafts of light were seeping through the edges of a closed door. From the other side, they could hear the muffled cadence of someone talking, the odd silences indicating that the conversation was being held over the phone. Jack paused with his hand on the door handle and looked back at Sawyer over his shoulder. Sawyer wondered how the hell Jack could see shit in the gloom with those shades he still wore, but nevertheless he gave a slight nod and straightened his shoulders as Jack pushed the door open.

Duckett’s eyes widened as he took in the intruders and he ended his call abruptly, snapping the cell shut as he slowly rose from behind his desk, his eyes flicking nervously from one man to the other. Sawyer’s gaze swept the room, trusting Jack to keep an eye on Duckett. Cardboard boxes of all shapes and sizes were piled up in one corner of the small room, the thick layers of dust on them indicating that they were a remnant of the original proprietors. More boxes were pushed against the adjacent wall, but these were new, branded with the logos of expensive electronics companies. There was a filing cabinet placed next to Duckett’s desk that was as new as the latest laptop that sat in front of him.

He glanced over at Jack and had to suppress a smirk as the GQ image he’d originally labeled him with was long gone. Jack had assumed a position off to one side, casually leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, but with his right hand snaked under the jacket, clearly indicating to Duckett that there was a gun there that he was ready to bring into play if necessary.

Sawyer turned his attention back to Duckett and narrowed his eyes as he stared at the now fidgeting man. Duckett licked his lips and held his hands out in the placating manner.

“Is there something I can do for you gentlemen?” he asked. The Midwestern accent held a slight stutter on the last word, a marker to Sawyer that the man was nervous and that getting the information they needed could be easier than he’d originally anticipated from his conversation with Hibbs.

“Well now, I certainly hope so Frank,” Sawyer drawled, taking a step forward. “See, I have this little problem with some people owing me money, yet I got a feelin’ I ain’t ever goin’ to see that cash again.”

“Look, I don’t know you guys, I don’t know anything about any money,” Duckett protested.

Sawyer smiled. “I never said you did.” He moved over to one of the new boxes. Flipping the lid of the closet box he looked over the computer equipment it held. “See, there’s some people who I helped out a little when they were down on their luck, me being the generous person that I am. And then when I go lookin’ for these people I find that they’re a little bit dead.”

“I haven’t killed anyone!”

“Didn’t say you did that either,” Sawyer answered. “See, my grievance ain’t with you, Frank, it’s with the piece of shit that’s cancelin’ out my loans.” His voice turned sharp, his eyes boring down on Duckett as the man started shuffling.

“Look I don’t know anything about that, ok,” Duckett protested.

“And that’s where I’m gonna have to disagree with you,” Sawyer said. “I sent those ‘friends’ of mine out here to acquire some funds. There’re too many rich people out here that were born with the sense God gave a raccoon - seems only right that someone teaches them how to keep their eyes out for a con by swindlin’ them out of a few grand here and there.”

“You’re talking about those killings, aren’t you? Those guys getting knifed,” Duckett asked, his shoulders finally relaxing.

Sawyer smiled brightly. “See Frank, you do know something after all.”

“Look, hell no,” Duckett said quickly. “All I know is that those guys were cons, new to the area. I don’t deal in that now.”

“So who covers your patch?” Sawyer asked.

“It’s a guy called Gordy.”

“And?”

“Look, that’s all I know.”

“Now see Frank, why don’t I believe you?”

Duckett’s eyes flicked suddenly to Jack as he straightened from where he’d remained leaning against the wall. Out of the corner of his eye, Sawyer could see one of Jack’s hands fall, but he kept the hand still that lay on his gun. “Woah, wait, wait!” Duckett cried, his hands raised again in surrender.

“Something joggin’ your memory there, hoss?” Sawyer drawled, tucking his hands in his jeans.

“Ok, ok. Gordy got himself into some trouble, not sure who with, all I know is that he’s on someone’s books, someone that’s got him scared. I guess maybe he’s giving up your guys as payment.”

Sawyer nodded to the cell phone Duckett still clutched tightly in his hand. “Call him. Tell him I want to talk to him. And tell him if he don’t talk he’s gonna have more trouble coming his way”

*******

Gordy had refused to meet on his own turf, opting instead to direct the detectives to Griffiths Park. Jack and Sawyer had arrived first, sitting in silence until the silver Mercedes pulled in next to them twenty minutes after they got there. The two men had shared a look before getting out of their own cars. Gordy hadn’t been what Jack was expecting, and when the man suggested that he and Sawyer leave the muscle behind to go sit on one of the park benches out of earshot, Jack could only force himself to bite down on his first instinct to protest and blow Sawyer’s cover.

He tried not to let the bustle of the park distract him, and his eyes only left the bench where Sawyer and Gordy sat to check over his opposite who was leaning against the hood of the car, likewise keeping an eye on his boss. A child’s scream and subsequent hysterics made him briefly glance away, but the sight of a mother tugging her offspring away from a game of tag had him looking back again in time to see the two men rise from the bench.

There was no handshake, and Sawyer waited behind as Gordy left first. Jack straightened as Gordy approached, biting his tongue to stop himself voicing anything that would give them away. Sawyer arrived as the Mercedes drove off, smiling widely and holding a piece of paper aloft. “Got it,” he said.

Jack breathed out deeply and forced himself to relax as he walked back to the driver’s side and dropped into the seat. He waited until he’d pulled the car back onto the highway and out of sight of the park before he broke the silence. “Do you believe him?”

Sawyer sniffed and settled back into his seat. “I can’t tell for sure, but if you’re asking me, I‘d put money on him being with the program.”

“With no name and no description, all we have to go on is the list of names he’s handed over. If it’s anything like the last victims their names aren’t going to kick out anything,” Jack pointed out. “We can get the addresses checked out and contact the landlords, but that’s about it.”

“Or we could just go knock on a few doors,” Sawyer suggested. His eyes scanned the list of names and addresses on the paper he held. “Which one of these is the closest?”

Jack glanced over to the paper briefly, flicking his eyes between the road and the list Sawyer held up. “West 39th,” he eventually said. “But we can’t go there without speaking to the Captain first.”

“Ah c’mon, you ain’t gonna ask for daddy’s permission every time you want to follow a lead are you?”

“Fuck you, Sawyer,” Jack bristled, his hands tightening in reflex around the steering wheel. “The fact that the Captain happens to be my father has nothing to do with it. However you did it back in Vegas, here we actually like to make sure we’re not walking straight through someone else’s case. You knock on that door and you could blow an operation. Put yourself back on the inside for a minute and think about it.”

Sawyer sighed theatrically. “Look, fine, ok, whatever. Can’t you just contact control and get them to look at it on the way?”

“Fine,” Jack huffed. “You’ve got a cell in your pocket, phone them.”

Jack turned his attention back to the road, and tuned out the one-sided conversation Sawyer was having with one of the girls in the control room, his Southern charm no doubt getting his searches done much faster than would normally have taken. Jack knew the rules -- he’d read enough of the regulations and procedures recently in Christian’s waiting room to keep up with all the changes. Sawyer seemed to not know of, or had chosen to ignore, any procedure that was put in place to not only protect undercover operatives, but also their own hides. And that made Jack wonder if Sawyer had found himself back-pedaling because someone chose to ignore those rules.

Jack respected those rules, and lived by them, but here he was bending them slightly. He was bypassing the Captain and going straight for the information without permission. The thought would never have crossed his mind before the meeting earlier today, but Jack had reached the stage where he had to prove to his father that he could work outside of those standards Christian had deemed him to be limited to. What had been clear for a while, what he’d chosen to ignore, was that his father wanted him to be a hero. Yet all those years ago when he’d come home from school with a blackened eye after sticking up for Marc against the bullies, all his father had shown in his drunken state was disgust at the shame his injuries brought on the family. He’d stood straight-backed and listened to Christian as he waxed on about the actions needed to make life and death decisions, and the consequences of failing. All Jack heard was that he would never be good enough.

Maybe he wasn’t a street cop, maybe he was just someone who was good with profiles and solving those old impossible cases that had been cast aside and forgotten… but it did feel good to be away from his desk and actively taking a role in the investigation. He was starting to understand better why Locke was always out of the office, moving from one interview to the next, one crime scene to another. So, maybe he could learn to be whoever it was that Christian expected him to be, and maybe Sawyer would be willing to help him get there.

Jack slowed the car at the stop light and tuned back in to Sawyer’s conversation. A quick glance at the clock in the car indicated that he’d been talking for over twenty minutes, so he was either arranging a date or had come up against a brick wall. As it turned out, the conversation was tailing off to the goodbyes, so Jack waited him out. As he finished, Jack turned to him. “We’re five minutes from West 39th, did you get anywhere?”

“Yeah, apparently there’s this real good steak house on South Figueroa she wants me to take her to.”

Jack snorted, knowing the only decent steak house on South Figueroa was Mortons and would cost Sawyer a fortune. “I bet she does.”

“Any good?”

“Oh, hell yeah, if you’re prepared to dole out upwards of two hundred bucks for two.”

Sawyer breathed out a curse. “Who the hell pays that much money for beef?”

Jack shrugged, “Those that have more money than sense maybe. Who were you sweet-talking?” he asked as he moved the car forward as the lights changed.

“Nikki something or other. She a looker? Then again if she’s expecting me to lay out $200 for steak then I’m not sure I wanna know.”

“Can’t say I know what they look like. They’re just a voice on the end of the phone. Speaking of which, are we good to go?”

“Yeah,” Sawyer said, glancing at the notes he’d made on the paper. “This one’s ok, and I hate to admit it, but you were right about askin’. The second guy on the list is something to do with Fraud. Seems they want a piece of Gordy too.”

Jack smiled wryly at being proven right, but managed to refrain from an ‘I told you so’. “You tell them why we were checking into it?”

“Yeah, they’re gonna get a message to their boy.”

Jack flicked on the turn signal and pulled onto West 39th. “We’re here, what number?”

Sawyer glanced at the paper again. “1805.”

Jack glanced out of the side window at the low-rise one and two storey houses, trying to see any sign of house numbers.

“1700’s, give it another block,” Sawyer eventually said.

Jack slowed to a stop outside a single storey house, freshly painted in brilliant white, the glare coming from the walls causing both men to squint as they tried to focus on the property. Terracotta tiling stood out against the clinical white of the walls, and herbs in blue window boxes combined to give the place a Mediterranean feel. A glance at the surrounding properties and the street outside, however, was enough to quickly remind you that this was LA and a far cry from European shores.

Sharing a glance, Jack and Sawyer crossed the short pathway, Sawyer standing back to allow Jack to pull open the screen door and knock. After a few seconds the door opened slightly, a stout, balding man peered around the edge of the door, his brown eyes flicking back and forth between the two detectives.

“Charles Mallary?” Jack asked.

“Who wants to know?”

Jack briefly looked at Sawyer, and when the other man shrugged, Jack reached into his back pocket to pull out his ID. “LAPD. We just need to talk to you. We think you might be in trouble.”

***

“Well that went well,” Sawyer muttered as Mallary’s door shut solidly behind them, leaving them to the early evening chill that had settled on the city.

“Did you expect anything else?” Jack asked, holding the gate open for Sawyer as he fished in his pocket for the car keys. “Would you have paid any attention?”

“Hell yeah!” Sawyer answered as he rounded the car. Leaning his arms on the roof, he turned to Jack. “It ain’t often a criminal finds two cops on his doorsteps who ain’t there to arrest him, and who tell him to watch out for other cops who may want to kill him.”

Sawyer watched as Jack tapped the ignition key on the back of his hand resting on the car roof, his eyes staring at something and nothing down the street. Sawyer watched him for a moment as the silence stretched, trying to work out what was on his mind. Eventually Jack checked his watch, straightened and opened the driver’s door. “Who’s next on the list?” he asked finally.

Digging in back in his pocket, Sawyer scanned the remaining two names. “Only two that we got the ok for, Franklin and Seward. Wellington Heights or South Gate.”

Jack shrugged. “Take your pick.”

“Would you say the other vics were in any order?” Sawyer asked.

Jack frowned as he worked his way mentally through the case file. “I wouldn’t say there was any order, alphabetical or not, with the names, but the locations are on a rough north to south path.”

“So any of these fit?”

“Not really, but South Gate would be the closest to the pattern.”

“Tony Franklin it is,” Sawyer said, following Jack as he ducked into the car.

Sawyer glanced at Jack as he rubbed a hand briefly across tired eyes for the second time in as many minutes and pulled out into the slowly moving traffic on the highway. “You sure you don’t want me to drive?”

Jack glanced at him briefly, but shook his head. “It’s ok. You don’t know where you’re going and I’m only going to fall asleep if I don’t keep myself busy.”

“Suit yourself,” Sawyer replied, a hand reaching for the seat controls and tipping the seat back further. He took the advantage the reclined position gave him to study Jack without him noticing. Sure he was tired, but despite that he seemed to have more spark than he had on the first day Sawyer had met him. Sawyer suspected it was because he was away from the desk and probably finally realizing he could play a role other than the paper pushing and profiling he’d been doing recently. Sawyer had no idea where Jack was going to head to once he handed in his notice, although he expected it was more of the same but without the pressure of daddy dearest leaning over his shoulder every minute of the day.

“There a reason you’re pushin’ yourself on this?” Sawyer eventually asked.

“What do you mean?”

Sawyer rested a booted foot against the walnut lining the dash of the Jag’s interior, not overly concerned as to whether it marked or not. “You pulled an all-nighter, and now you’re pushin’ this past clockin’ off time. Don’t seem to me like it’s the first time either, and I’m pretty sure it won’t be the last. Just wondered why now?”

“I guess I just feel like things are moving. That the killer is making mistakes and we’re getting that much closer.”

“Not to mention the fact that you ain’t gonna go home until you’ve checked all the cons to make sure you ain’t too late.”

Jack glanced at him briefly before turning his attention back to the road. Sawyer was glad of the decreasing light, because Jack had been forced to remove the sunglasses and all those tells were back there to see in his eyes. Jack wasn’t the type to allow himself to fail, and certainly wasn’t going to let anyone down on his watch, even if it drove him to his limits. He was going to have to sleep at some stage, and Sawyer wasn’t sure he wanted it on his shift. But despite that, Jack seemed to depend on pressure like a drug, something to get him going, something to get him to achieve more. There was one thing for sure; Sawyer was not going to be left with all the damn reports to write.

The rush hour traffic was starting to dissipate, but it still took them nearly an hour to get to South Gate, during which time Sawyer had complained, even when Jack was no longer listening, about the lack of any snacks in the car. He had managed to convince Jack to stop at the first convenience store they passed, although Sawyer was certain it had more to do with wanting to stop the incessant complaints than because his own digestive system was bemoaning the lack of food. How Jack was still functioning without sleep or food, Sawyer didn’t know, but the ham sandwich he’d consumed had never tasted better. They sat in the car for a few minutes, taking the break they should have forced themselves to have earlier, but it didn’t take long for Jack to lay down his own half-eaten sandwich and flick the ignition, clearly eager to get it finished. Sawyer wasn’t sure if Jack would call it a night after this one, although he doubted he’d shut down until he’d visited all three addresses.

San Antonio Avenue was a virtual kaleidoscope of real estate. White-washed single-storey homes stood side-by-side with two-storey brick fronted buildings. Houses of yellows and blues were interspersed at random intervals along the road, some with gardens and large trees spilling their branches out over the sidewalk, some with long, sprawling paved yards leading to dimly lit houses set back from the street. Lights shone here and there through undraped windows, the strange hypnotic flicker of television sets shining out from otherwise darkened rooms. The road was full of cars, people having arrived home after a day at work, and Jack had to pull up further down the road from their intended destination.

As they reached Franklin’s house, Jack paused and Sawyer had to backtrack to find out what the problem was. “You ok?”

Jack turned to him, a frown on his face. “I know that car,” he said, pointing to the late 80’s Dodge Ram directly outside Franklin’s front yard.

“Where from?” Sawyer asked.

But Jack just shook his head. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

“One of the case files?”

“No. That much I do know.”

Sawyer shifted and glanced back towards the darkened house. “You sure it doesn’t just look like one you know?”

Jack shook his head again. “Maybe, but the plate’s familiar.”

“Well how about we stop lookin’ like we work for Avon and see if this guy’s home so we can get to ours before the night’s out.” He turned back to towards the house, aiming for the front door, hearing Jack pause for a moment longer before following. Sawyer opened the small gate that led onto the porch and knocked at the front door, listening for any sound from the interior. He knocked again after hearing nothing, trying to peer through the frosted glass panel on the door, but nothing was moving in the darkened hallway.

He shrugged and jumped down the steps to where Jack was waiting, noticing instantly that Jack was still turning his attention backwards and forwards between the house and the damn car out front. “You standin’ here all night? No-one’s home.”

Sawyer watched Jack as he ran a hand across the back of his neck. “Something’s not right,” Jack said softly.

“What? Can’t a man go out without you getting twitchy?”

Jack glared at him, and Sawyer was fully expecting another ‘fuck you’ tossed in his direction, but Jack managed to keep quiet, leaving Sawyer standing still as he turned and walked round the side of the building. Sawyer sighed loudly, waiting a few seconds before reluctantly following. He quickened his pace as he saw Jack pushing open the side door, one hand reaching for his gun. Sawyer made sure his own was gripped solidly in his hand by the time he’d joined him.

“What?” he whispered.

“Door was ajar,” Jack replied, just as quietly, gently pushing on the door to open it further.

Sawyer cringed as the door squeaked loudly on its hinges, but he didn’t say anything as Jack stepped into the kitchen. Trying to step lightly over the hardwood floors so his boots didn’t make too much noise, Sawyer followed, urging his eyes to adjust quickly from the semi-darkness outside to the relative blackness in the house where the kitchen windows were shielded from the glow of the street lights.

His eyes scanned the room, taking in the sink full of still soapy-dish water. He edged over to the sink, and put the fingers of his free hand into the water. The temperature gave him the indication that someone was either still in the house, or wasn’t long gone.

Jack glanced over his shoulder as he edged towards the door that led out into the hallway, Sawyer nodded silently at him, a confirmation that he understood where he was going, that he was following. He stopped as Jack paused in the doorway, training his gun around the various vantage points. Sawyer waited until Jack had moved through the door before he inched forward, his eyes taking in what Jack had, the staircase twisting upwards to their right, the two doors leading off the hallway – one closed, one ajar. Sawyer tapped Jack’s shoulder and cocked his head to the right indicating that he’d take the stairs and the second floor. Jack paused a moment, seemingly reluctant to split up, but he nodded once before edging to the open doorway.

Sawyer watched him briefly before he moved towards the stairs. He turned his back to the stairs, training his gun on the second floor landing as he inched up each stair, occasionally glancing back down to check for any obvious boards that might squeak, or any obstacles in his way. The upstairs landing was carpeted, and he increased his pace, still mindful that any loose floorboards could give up his position. His eyes were adjusting to the darkness, even more thick up here where no light at all reached the enclosed landing. He could make out three closed doors in the inky darkness, and he strained his ears to catch any sound to indicate what might be moving behind them. That was how he heard the soft thud that came from downstairs.

*******

Jack inched the door open slightly, just enough to ease into the room. This room ran the entire length of the building, orange light filtered in through the slatted Venetian blinds at the front. The faint glow from the windows of the house beyond the iron fencing behind the house drifted in through open drapes at the other end. The light cast elongated shadows along the wooden floor from the sparse and mismatched collection of furniture. Just enough to indicate someone lived there, enough to leave behind in a push.

Jack’s gaze moved quickly around the room, looking for any intruder, anything that might be moving. But the black shapes all remained still, including the one laying in the center of the room, the muted light glinting off the knife still embedded in the body.

Jack edged forwards, his gun still held in front of him. Both hands were clenched tightly around the butt of the Smith & Wesson and he flexed them slightly to ease his grip. He stepped towards the body, knowing already that the man was dead. Not even a life spent indoors would ever leave skin as pale as the gray alabaster that death painted on a body. Still, he had to know for sure; he scanned the room as he bent slowly to check for a pulse, his right hand still aiming the gun into the semi-darkness. His gaze tracked right, and he finally registered that the door that had previously been closed was now open. Jack stared at it for a moment while he satisfied himself that the man was dead and finally stood slowly. As he straightened he felt the chill of a gun barrel press lightly against the back of his neck.

Jack stilled. Any sane person would have left the house through the open kitchen door while the two men were searching the rooms. But Jack had come to believe that this perp had lost his cool once Boone had been killed. Something so drastic had broken his pattern, his habits, and shaken him up… enough that he lost control. So it wasn’t a surprise that he’d hung around - he wasn’t going to walk into a station and confess, he wanted to be caught at the scene.

“Drop the gun.”

Jack hesitated. He knew that voice. The gun pressed harder into the back of the neck.

“I _will_ pull the trigger.”

Jack reluctantly tossed the gun aside; it landed solidly on the wooden floor, sliding along the polished surface into the hallway.

Despite the cold chill of the gun barrel against his skin, Jack stepped away slowly and turned round. This confrontation had to be face to face.

“Hello Jack.”

“Hello John,” Jack said flatly. It all fell into place as Jack stared down the gun barrel at Locke. The meticulous cleanliness of the crime scenes, the fact that not a single clue was left… Jack had every belief that John was using the cold light of day of the morning after, when he was sent back to those crime scenes in an official capacity, to check he’d cleaned up every possible mistake. Jack smiled wryly. At least the section in his profile about the killer revisiting the scene of the crime held true.

“Why?” Jack asked simply.

“Because I had to,” Locke said calmly.

Jack snorted in disbelief. “You had to…? Why, John? Why did you have to kill six… no, seven people?” he asked, waving a hand towards the man laid out on the floor at his feet. “And Boone? Did you kill Boone too? Are you actually going to tell me the fucking truth about that?”

“Boone was an accident,” John said quickly. “He shouldn’t have been there. I was supposed to go alone to the scenes. I made a mistake, I left something out of place, and when he came upstairs to tell me he’d found it, I didn’t think. I just pushed him. I didn‘t think Jack, I’m sorry.”

“You’re _sorry_?” Jack scoffed. “He was just a kid, damn it!”

“I know, and I truly am sorry. That’s why I started to leave clues. I knew it had gone too far, but I just couldn’t stop myself. You were supposed to stop me, Jack.”

“What? Are you going to blame this on me?”

“Aren’t you going to blame it on yourself?” John asked calmly.

Jack closed his eyes and shook his head, closing out the blame in Locke’s face. “Just tell me why,” he demanded, his voice dropping almost to a whisper.

“Have you ever given your trust to someone and have them throw everything you thought you knew about them back in your face?”

Jack’s first thought was his father, then Sarah, hell, even Locke, but he didn’t voice that. Instead he remained quiet, hoping to keep Locke talking long enough for him to get answers, and for Sawyer to reappear.

“My mother is a schizophrenic. My father is a con man. He even conned my mother just so that he could meet me and con me into giving him a kidney. Everything he ever did was a lie, everything he ever said was a lie. And just when I thought I’d gone through enough therapy to get over the anger I felt for him, he reappeared and chased away my fiancé. He took everything from me, and left me with nothing.”

Jack watched as Locke’s grip tightened around the gun, the barrel still pointing unmoving at the center of Jack’s chest.

“So I had to stop them. I had to stop them taking any more from people.”

“So you’re killing these men because they’re con artists?” Jack asked, needing to get this straight.

“Because they ruin people’s lives, Jack!” Locke yelled.

Jack paused, knowing that Sawyer must have heard that outburst, even if everything else had gone undetected. “Have you found him?” Jack asked softly.

“Found who?”

“Your father. If you’re killing all these cons, do you see his face when you plunge a knife into their backs? Or do you always kill from behind because you don’t want to see their faces? Don’t want to see that it isn’t him.”

Locke’s fingers flexed around the gun stock, the finger curled round the trigger twitched and tightened. “I don’t want to shoot you.”

“Then don’t,” Jack said, but he didn’t move. “End it here, and now, and put the gun down.”

Locke shook his head.

“You wanted this to be over. You said I was supposed to stop you. I’m stopping you now, John. Put the gun down.”

Jack held Locke’s gaze, barely registering out of the corner of his eye the movement as Locke’s fingers twitched around the gun again. Then came the shot. A single bang ringing loud in the silence. The deafening echo reverberated louder still in the moment after. The stench of gunpowder and blood and regret.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Jack said flatly.

“Hey, no sweat, thank me later,” Sawyer drawled, as he stepped around the door and into the room. Jack watched him as he paused by Locke’s fallen body and rested two fingers against his neck. Jack didn’t need to know the answer, it was staring at him through wide open, lifeless eyes.

“He wasn’t going to shoot.”

“The hell he wasn’t. The man was a nutcase. He was likely to plug you and blame the Cookie Monster.” Sawyer straightened up from his crouch and slipped his gun back into his holster.

Jack scrabbled backwards, a hand rubbing frantically across his head. “He wasn’t going to shoot! I know him, he doesn’t have it in him!” Jack shouted.

“No shit, Sherlock. So, you’re saying you knew him well enough to know he wouldn’t shoot, yet didn’t know he was a damn psycho serial killer? Because I hate to break it to you - he was!” Sawyer growled.

“FUCK! Fuck you, fuck him, fuck this fucking job!”

Jack turned abruptly into the hall, scooping his gun from the floor as he stormed through the kitchen and out of the door, not caring about the loud bang as the door flung back into the cabinets when he tugged on it too hard. He needed air. He needed to work out what the hell had gone wrong and when. How the hell had it come down to good versus evil in their own department?

Jack leaned his forearms on the iron fence that ran down the side of the house. Breathing deeply, he stared out across the neighbor’s yard, across pristine green lawns and styled planting. His gaze was caught by the wrought iron statue of an American eagle perched amidst the shrubs. Its cold eyes seemed to see straight through him, and he shivered. He heard Sawyer’s boots hit the top step behind him, but he didn’t move any further. Jack didn’t need to turn round to know he would be leaning relaxed against the door jamb. Jack envied him, his ability to shut everything out, to get beyond emotions.

He sucked in a loud breath, the cool air sharp in his lungs. He could hear sirens in the distance. The surreal peace of that moment would be swept up in the maelstrom of officers, coroners, crime scene investigators… He straightened. He had a call to make, and maybe this time he’d tell his father ‘I told you so’, no matter how wrong Jack wished he could be.

*******

Christian folded his tall frame to duck under the police tape that the uniformed officer held up for him. Pausing just inside the doorway he straightened his suit jacket, smoothing a hand down the silk tie before he stepped into the front room. His eyes took in the quiet professionalism of the numerous crime scene personnel as they moved meticulously about the house. His attention strayed to where one of the men was dusting for fingerprints along the handle of the knife that still sat in the victim’s back, the last job before removing it, bagging and tagging, before allowing the coroners outside to enter and remove the body.

The flash of a camera drew Christian’s gaze to the second body. One of his own detectives. He hadn’t wanted to believe Jack when he got the call, but the tone of his son’s voice was all the truth he needed. He’d hand-picked John Locke for his team based on his closures, his ability to focus on a case, his detail, his seemingly unflappable nature. Had he overlooked the obvious issues that had been in his personnel file in order to get results? Probably. But then he hadn’t thought it was an issue. At least Locke had very little in the way of friends and family that Christian would have to console, or consider the feelings of when it came to press conferences.

His own department should be handling all officer involved shootings, but Christian would not be surprised if Internal Affairs knocked on his office door in the morning to take charge of this incident. He spared one last glance at Locke’s broken body before he turned to seek out his detectives. They were at the end of the long room; Ford was reluctantly dropping his gun into the plastic evidence bag that one of the CSIs held open for him. Christian heard his Southern drawl demanding that he get it back this side of Christmas, his hand unconsciously smoothing over the now empty holster under his arm. He watched as Ford turned his attention back towards where Jack sat, his elbows resting on his knees, his head buried in his hands.

He moved cautiously around the investigators, careful to not step on any of the white outlined areas, and made his way over to the two men. Jack looked up as the clicking of his dress shoes on the hardwood floor gave away his approach. Jack looked like hell, and for a brief moment Christian thought about just sending them both home for the night, but things needed doing before that could happen. Christian wanted the advantage in his court for tomorrow morning.

“I want you to go back to headquarters, I want written reports of all your movements today, and I want a step-by-step account of what happened here. From both of you,” he emphasized, making sure to look both detectives in the eye. “Once you’ve done that go home, get some sleep, but be back in the office by seven. I’ll speak to you both then.”

“Hey, hang on a minute…” Ford started to complain at the work involved, but Jack’s hand on his arm stopped him.

“Sawyer…” Jack said simply, the shake of his head stopping whatever protest was on Ford’s tongue.

Jack pushed himself to his feet, and Christian met his tired eyes as they turned towards him. Jack was silent for a brief moment before he simply nodded once and walked off. Ford hesitated, then casting a scowl in Christian’s direction he sauntered after his partner. Christian watched them as they talked quietly in the hall, hearing only the soft murmurs of the conversation. He watched Jack hand over the car keys to Ford, giving some indication of what the discussion was about before they finally left the scene.

Christian cast one last look around the room; the two light bulbs sitting unshaded at the ends of the room gave barely enough light to work. The powerful spotlights the CSI team had brought overpowered them easily, and yet, through the blinds that were ajar at the front window, the rhythmic flash of blue light from the squad cars outside permeated the room. He could just about make out the faces of the local residents gathered outside the police tape, their curious gazes illuminated briefly by those same blue lights.

“Sir?”

Christian turned to the nervous-looking uniformed officer standing in the doorway behind him. “Sir, a press team has turned up.”

Christian nodded once. “Thank you. I’ll be out shortly.” He watched the man turn with an expression of relief on his face, and Christian couldn’t help but wonder just how long the boy had been on the force, and how long he had to go until he became as jaded as the rest of them. He sighed, careful to not make the gesture obvious to those around him, and turned his back on the organized chaos, to face the unorganized mess outside. He’d like nothing more than to go out there and simply tell them all where they could go, but he’d got his position because he was a diplomat, because he could talk his way out of situations such as this and leave the LAPD reputation still intact.

*******

Jack stared into the bottom of the whiskey glass. The contents that were left were warmed through from his grasp, but the burn the alcohol made as he drank had long since faded into numbness. He set the glass down on the scarred bar top and glanced over his shoulder at the TV screen flickering soundlessly in the corner of the bar. He watched as his father walked on screen to the strobe of flash bulbs, taking his seat behind the table covered with an LAPD flag that they kept only for use at press conferences. Jack didn’t need to have the sound turned on to know what Christian was saying. It would be a speech full of half-truths and false remorse, but told in such a way that the reporters would be lapping it up as the gospel truth. Jack shook his head and turned back round on his bar stool.

He and Sawyer had written their reports, dropped them on Christian’s desk sometime around midnight. They hadn’t spoken much while they’d typed. There was no need to corroborate their stories, because whatever Sawyer chose to say, Jack was going to write the truth regardless, and he guessed Sawyer knew that. Jack’s report came off the printer first, and while he sat proofreading it, making sure he said all he wanted to, he saw Sawyer print his off, drop it straight into a file and tilt his chair back as he dropped his feet on his desk. They’d left in silence, Sawyer following him automatically, separating at Jack’s car with a brief goodbye. If he’d slept at all, it was a restless few minutes on his couch before the warm red light of dawn filtering into the living room sent him to his kitchen for coffee.

Christian had already been in the office when they’d both arrived, looking pressed and unruffled despite the mess he was having to sort out. Their meeting had been short, Christian only wanting confirmation that what was written was the truth, conditioning them in what he expected them to say when Internal Affairs came in. Jack hadn’t spoken much to Sawyer the rest of the day. Internal Affairs did make an appearance, and Jack’s gaze had flicked regularly to the closed blinds of his father’s office. Eventually, one of the IA officers headed over to their desks. Jack had been expecting to be called for a meeting, but they only wanted the case notes, and Jack had been left to stew for the remainder of the day, unable to concentrate on anything new, and unable to work on anything connected to the case. Eventually, Christian had sent them home, and in a rare showing of concern, had given them both the morning off the next day.

They’d left together, but this time Sawyer didn’t follow him to the parking lot, and Jack had stood and watched him walk down the street for a long moment, his thoughts more confused at that moment than they had been all day. He’d driven home in silence. The normal CD he played to shut out the working day remained quiet, the car windows open slightly to let some of the spring air into the car. Jack had sat in his driveway for some time, the interior steadily cooling as the sun dropped and the chill of the ocean breeze filtered in through the still open windows. Jack had shivered and finally climbed out of the car. One glance at his house and he’d turned out of his drive and walked down the street. He’d needed a drink.

He tipped back the contents of the glass, his first. Seemed that although his head wanted to get drunk enough to stop thinking, his stomach wasn’t really in the mood to face the consequences. Ignoring the brief rumble that reminded him he hadn’t eaten again, he raised his empty glass to the bartender, indicating for a refill. When the new glass came, he wrapped a hand round it, staring at the contents as he swirled the ice.

He had thought he knew what he was going to do. That he would catch the bastard, wrap the case up, go to court, stick a big red ‘solved’ stamp on the front of all the paperwork, and enjoy the sense of relief and finality when he dropped that file into place in the filing cabinet. There was no sense of relief, no sense of closure, only the bad taste left in his mouth, and the part of him he hated right now that wanted to do it all over again. He wanted to work with someone who argued with him, challenged him, made him feel that he was more than a paper pusher, that he was actually doing something worthwhile. Sawyer had made him want to be a good cop. Nothing his father could say or do had made him feel so competitive, or made him feel so alive. But he’d told Sawyer he was leaving, and Sawyer had shown no regret or inkling that he would attempt to stop him from going, so Jack had consigned himself to mailing that application letter to Quantico. He could feel its weight in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. All he had to do was find a mail box.

He raised the glass, taking a sip as someone sat on the stool next to him. He glanced over as he placed the glass back on the bar, the rings of condensation wetting the cuff of his shirt as he rested his arms on the bar.

“You’re a hard man to find,” Sawyer said, a raised hand getting the attention of the bartender.

“Wasn’t aware anyone was looking for me,” Jack said, silently waving off a refill.

Sawyer shrugged, taking a sip of his own whiskey. “Hurley said you might be down here. Think he’s a might offended that you don’t drown your sorrows in his cantina where he can keep an eye on you. Told him that’s the reason why you ain’t there.”

“Hurley’s heart’s in the right place, but he doesn’t always know when to leave it be,” Jack said.

“Yeah, I kinda figured that one.” Sawyer paused, and Jack could see him glancing back at the TV screen before he turned and mirrored Jack’s pose, his own far more relaxed than Jack’s would ever be. “See your daddy’s spinnin’ his tale.”

Jack nodded. “Yeah. He’ll have them believing whatever he wants them to,” he said bitterly.

Sawyer snorted. “Seems that way, don’t it?”

Jack didn’t reply. He was surprised Sawyer had bothered to look for him, let alone walk through most of Redondo Beach searching for him.

“You want to know why I picked Sawyer as a name?” he suddenly asked, his voice hushed.

Jack glanced at him, surprised at being asked or offered an explanation. Sawyer didn’t look at him. His head was dipped, long blond hair hanging down to cover his face from Jack’s scrutiny, fingers toying with the glass in front of him.

Jack nodded, careful to not make him appear too eager. “Sure,” he said.

There was a long pause before Sawyer started speaking, and Jack was careful to not interrupt, not wanting to lose the rarely offered insight. “My parents both died when I was eight.”

Jack bit back the automatic apology. He didn’t think Sawyer would want to hear it anymore than he probably had the countless times before in his life. He let him continue.

“My mother got in with this guy named Sawyer, turned out he was a conman tryin’ to swindle money out of my folks. He walked off with their life savings. When my daddy found out he picked up a gun and shot my momma, then himself. He landed right on the bed I was hidin’ under.” Jack dug his fingernails into his palms in a bid to keep quiet. He turned his gaze back to Sawyer when he dipped a hand into the inside pocket of his leather jacket. Jack glanced at the envelope he held; the handwriting on the front addressing it to ‘Mr Sawyer’ was childlike in its style.

“I wrote that bastard a letter, to make him know what he’d done. I swore I was goin’ to make him read it just before I killed him. Got passed from one foster family to another, I kept ditchin’ school to go find him. When I finally got out of the system, I went lookin’ for him, got myself in trouble a few times. Tried to be the conman so I could find out where to look; eventually, figured I might do better tryin’ to track the bastard from the other side of the law.”

Jack tried to put himself in Sawyer’s shoes. What Locke had been doing was what Sawyer himself once planned to do. Jack wondered how the hell Sawyer had stayed so calm and relaxed through it all. Did he feel any sympathy for the dead? Did he condone what Locke did? Jack wasn’t sure he would have kept it together if he had been in Sawyer’s place.

“I took his name when I went undercover because that job was all about the con. I became that bastard for a while, and part of me liked it. And I hate the sonnovabitch more for that. I use his name to remind me to keep lookin’ for him, cos sometimes I’m tired of all the shit and I wonder why I’m doin’ it. But one day I’m goin’ to hand him this letter and then I’m goin’ to put him away.”

Jack sat silent, unsure of what to say, trying to understand why Sawyer was sharing this information with him. “If you need a hand, let me know,” he said finally.

Sawyer nodded, now holding the envelope in both hands. His thumbs rubbed softly over the aged paper, before he almost reluctantly handed it to Jack. “Figured maybe you could look after this for me. I’ll come for it when I need it.”

Jack stared at the envelope. Sawyer’s hand shook slightly, but he held the envelope out until Jack finally took it lightly between his fingers. Jack studied the slight stains that covered the paper, evidence of fingers having touched and held it repeatedly over the years. He could feel that the envelope wasn’t sealed, but Jack silently promised Sawyer that he would never take the letter out to read. He was aware of Sawyer looking at him, and he nodded. As he placed Sawyer’s precious envelope carefully in the inside pocket of his jacket, his fingers brushed his own letter. He hesitated a moment before bringing it out.

He tapped it on the bar before he held it out to Sawyer. Sawyer’s eyes met his, and Jack smiled slightly. “Maybe you could look after this for me then,” he said. He’d count on Sawyer to talk him out of leaving, should he ever feel the need to turn tail and run.

Sawyer took the envelope and read the address on the front. Jack watched a slight smile creep across Sawyer’s face before he placed it in his own pocket. He downed the glass of whiskey, crunching on an ice cube as he turned back to Jack.

“How about we go get something to eat. I could go for one of those burritos again, and I reckon Hurley might be glad to see you. My treat.”

Jack laughed. “Yeah ok,” he sighed, finishing his own drink. He stood up from the stool, his eyes turning to the TV screen where Christian’s press conference was just ending. He followed Sawyer from the bar, and couldn’t help but believe that his father had won. For once, he found that he didn’t mind all that much.


End file.
